My Misfit
by Zo One
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, lead singer of a popular European Alternative band, came to America to charm the nation into his bed. But instead he found himself caught in the web of a disgruntled McDonalds employee. USUKUS; 3shot; AU
1. Chapter 1

**My Misfit**

_Part One_

Summary: Arthur Kirkland, lead singer of a popular European Alternative band, came to America to charm the nation into his bed. But instead he found himself caught in the web of a disgruntled McDonald's employee.

* * *

><p>With a relaxed sigh, Alfred reached for the rumpled British magazine, scanning the headlines curiously as equally curious hands began roaming the dips, curves and muscles of his bare shoulders and back.<p>

**The Empire Singer Caught With His Estranged American Beau! [Exclusive Details Inside!] pg. 17**

He tried not to laugh as he scanned the picture on the front cover – one that was completely blown out of proportion, as they tended to be. They were only walking down the street, eating ice cream. How scandalous of them. But still, he decided to humor himself and opened the magazine to the indicated page only to actually laugh at the article headline:

**Reunited at last? One of Europe's favorite couples may be back!**

Alfred smiled and closed the magazine, rolling it up and tossing it over the side of the bed. What the press didn't know couldn't hurt them. Sighing he leaned into those roaming hands, his smile deepening as they wrapped around him and pulled him into a tight embrace. "Just what is so amusing?" a low, sultry voice purred against the shell of his ear, and Alfred shivered in delight. How he loved that voice.

"That magazine – it was just making me think… About the first time we met…"

* * *

><p>The Empire was a well known band in Europe, Arthur had to remind himself, almost daily as they passed through crowds of blank faces and murmurs of, "Who are they?" as they went about. He was rich – and fabulously so – as were his three band members: Francis, Antonio and Gilbert. Of course people could tell that they had money, but not the reason, and that annoyed Arthur as much as it angered him.<p>

Back home he could probably ejaculate out into the faces of an audience and they would _thank _him; here, they fucking questioned why he was even walking down the street. "Fucking stupid Americans," he cursed bitterly as their group boarded the tour bus – a ragtag group of fans pressing their grimy hands onto the windows as the bus began driving away. "I hate not being famous here."

The guitarist and the most flamboyant of the group – Francis – sighed dramatically. "_Oui_, I must agree with our unfortunate friend. The women here are much more reluctant in the removal of their blouses."

"That's not what I meant," Arthur bit back as Gilbert cackled wildly. Bloody hell, they had to spend the next eighteen months on this Godforsaken continent. "Let's just get something to eat."

After Gilbert gave out a few generous elbows to the stomach, Antonio finally got the intended message and skipped to the front of the bus to tell the driver to stop somewhere for food. Being the bassist, Antonio was a bit of the bands bitch – not that he seemed to mind. Half the time Arthur swore the brunet Spaniard was happy to run off from the rest of them and do as he pleased for a while. Not that he could blame him, really.

Everyone thought that tour busing would be fun – see the world and whatnot. Arthur distinctly found it to be a torture. A person could only watch so many DVD's or read so many books in one day, and most of his time was spent twiddling his thumbs in a bus filled with people that he'd spent every day with for the past six years. Needless to say there wasn't much conversation beyond, "Shut up, Francis, no one gives a shit about the ugly skank you shagged last."

Francis' deep blue eyes traveled the tour bus with an air of sophisticated boredom. He wasn't the type to just sit still and be quiet – no of course not, and perhaps that's what pissed Arthur off the most about him. "So, Arthur, my unfortunate friend –"

"- Stop calling me that –"

" – Speaking of "shags", have you found yourself a lovely young man yet?" Arthur frowned heavily at what he knew was a mockery of himself. Of course he hadn't found anyone – he was still put off from his recent breakup right before they left for America. Francis only grinned innocently and Arthur wondered what the jail time in America was for assault and battery.

Gilbert and Antonio remained quiet – they both had someone waiting for them back home, or at least Gilbert liked to pretend to (he was never one for anything long-term). But before Arthur could actually act out on his wish and claw out Francis' eyes with his bare hands, the bus stopped with a screech of air-breaks and the bus driver yelled something about 'McDonalds' and 'get your food'.

Arthur stood up sharply and demanded everyone else's orders. There was no reason for all of them to go inside and make a spectacle of themselves. It was routine, it was familiar – but this was fucking _America_, and he'd wished he'd remembered that little bit before hopping off the bus and towards the small building.

He walked into the hush of the fast-food restaurant, the orange lights and tan tiled floors making him blink a few times to adjust to the light, compared to the darkness of the late evening outside. There was that pause as he merely stood in the doorway, waiting (and hoping, just a tad) that someone would recognize him. But when there were no hushed whispers or astonished gasps of recognition; he let his shoulders drop.

"Hey, dingbat – counter's over here." Arthur startled at the rude greeting, his acidic green eyes glowering over at the employee behind the nearest register. He didn't look a day over nineteen, with sandy blond hair tucked under a black visor, and his too blue, sky colored eyes looked bored behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He popped a large, obnoxiously pink bubble of gum. "Hey, didja hear me? Or are you just gunna stand there like a dope all night?"

Arthur almost snarled – almost. Instead he put on his best façade and strolled up to the register, leaning against the cold countertop. "Actually, I was hoping to order," he said, in his best sexy rock star voice.

The boy behind the counter simply raised a shapely brow, blowing another bubble and popping it with a gnash of his teeth. "No shit? I thought you'd come on back here and suck my dick. But if you even try that, I'll have to dunk your head in the fryer grease. I prefer to be wined and dined."

There was a long moment as Arthur simply stared – in a state of shell-shocked confusion – at the cashier. Was he seriously just _rejected_? The employee only blew another disinterested bubble and a raw anger surged up from Arthur's stomach and his hands clenched on the counter top. But just as he was about to lash out with a temper that he was rather infamous for in Europe, another employee came and slapped the smart-mouthed cashier upside the head.

"Alfred! You're fucking lucky Roderich isn't here to listen to you!" she hissed, fixing her own visor that sat on top of her curly brown hair that was done up in a messy bun. "Hello! Welcome to McDonalds, how can I help you today?" she asked him instead, turning a large, fake smile onto Arthur.

He waited a few seconds, his green eyes darting between the two employees to make sure he wasn't being pranked or something else equally ridiculous. "Uhm, yes… can I get three number two's, a number six, and a number one – to go?"

"_Fat ass_," the blond employee coughed out, pretending to choke a bit. He smiled as Arthur's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't worry 'bout me, I'm fine. I'll get to work on those burgers right away!" He gave the woman a cheesy two fingered salute, popping another bubble loudly, before scampering into the kitchen.

The woman sighed. "I'm sorry about him," she apologized tiredly, punching in the order with more force than was necessary. "I'd like to say he's not always like that, but, well, usually he is. He's been here about three years now – I'm surprised Roddy hasn't fired him by now. Although he probably just feels bad for the kid."

Soon the blond returned with a large, grease-stained bag. "Just waitin' on your fries, dude." He set the bag on the countertop next to the small ticket with Arthur's order on it. His blue eyes scanned over Arthur for a moment, eyeing him up and down. Arthur was about to comment when the blond suddenly interrupted with, "So like, did you just run away from the circus or something?"

The woman choked on seemingly nothing as Arthur sputtered in outrage. The buzzer for the fryer sounded and the young blond strolled off conveniently to fetch the fries.

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek as the blond handed him the bag and five cups before heading back into the kitchen with a wave of his middle finger in the air and the woman apologized again, offering to help him carry the drinks back out to the tour bus.

"Thanks, lass," Arthur said once the food and drink was on the bus, he stood on the steps with Francis peering down curiously from the padded couch he sat on. "Tell that boy of yours to go die for me, will you?"

She smiled a bit. "He's been told that plenty of times, trust me. But uhm, I have a quick question – if I may?"

Arthur gave a half-shrug with one of his shoulders. "Sure."

"You're Arthur Kirkland, aren't you? From The Empire? You guys are on your _Total Reign _Tour, right?" And suddenly she seemed to burst with the fangirl excitement that Arthur was used to dealing with.

He smiled lecherously and took a long sip of his fizzy drink. "And if I am?" Francis grinned over the handrail, winking down at the woman and she blushed modestly.

"Oh! I'm taken, dears, but I can't wait to tell Alfred that he seriously just rejected _Arthur Kirkland_!" Her smile turned sharp and strange as she wove her fingers together behind her back in an innocent gesture. "He's an absolute fan of your music – oh, his face is going to be _priceless._" She batted her eyelashes, producing a pen and a starched napkin. "Could you give me an autograph? As evidence?"

Falling into routine, Arthur took the napkin and pen, signing the paper material with swooping movements of his wrist before handing it back. "Here you go – go give that git a what-for."

She grinned, holding the napkin to her chest eagerly. "Thank you! Have a safe trip! And I wish you the best of luck at your next concert!" she called out as she practically skipped back to the establishment.

Arthur just gave his fellow band members a look and shrugged as he retreated back onto the bus once it began to roll down the parking lot and back onto the street. He sat down with a sigh, recounting his experience within the McDonalds, much to Gilbert's amusement, and began passing out the food.

"He asked if you're from the circus _¿verdad?_" Antonio repeated as he unwrapped his burger, laughing airily as he tossed his wrapper at Francis. "If that were true, then Francis would be the Bearded Woman!"

After the ensuing French fry fight, Arthur cleared his throat. "Well, either way, I don't give a care as to what happens to that boy. Rude, snot-gobbling child." There was a collective hum of agreement and Arthur smiled. He unwrapped his own burger and paused. Instead of a double cheeseburger, there were only two buns pressed together. With a quiet rage he pulled off the top bun only to be met with a slather of ketchup and what was obviously a large snot-ball in the center of his sandwich. At that point, Arthur exploded.

"That's _it_! Turn this fucking bus _around_!"

* * *

><p>Alfred hummed to himself as he mopped the floors in the quiet of the store. It was closing time, and he always enjoyed the hour and a half he got to himself to clean. Quickly he checked his back pocket for the folded napkin that Elizaveta had given him almost an hour earlier. Arthur Kirkland – of all people in the <em>world <em>– had to walk into the McDonalds that _he _worked at? He wasn't sure if he felt glad or upset that he'd told the famous singer off. The guy was a rich snob, and probably deserved it, but on the other hand…

It was _Arthur Kirkland_; the man with the sexiest voice on the planet. Alfred sighed. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he grumbled, hitting himself on the face with the handle of the mop with each word. "I probably shouldn't have hawked that loogie in the sandwich…"

Whatever. He hoped the guitarist got it.

He finished cleaning the floors and wiped down the tables one more time before shuffling into the back and grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder as he made his way out.

As he was locking up the doors, a large black bus with jagged, blue stripes drove up. Soon a man descended from inside the bus and made his way towards Alfred, his face cloaked in the darkness as the bus began driving away after a wispy hand signal from the approaching man.

"Sorry buddy, this place closes at eleven. If you're lookin' for a twenty-four hour joint to stuff your face at, there's another one about nine blocks down," he called out, huffing and slightly nervous when the man made no stop in his advance. He didn't particularly feel like getting mugged tonight. "Hey dumbass! Didja hear me? I said we're _closed_."

The man scoffed loudly and Alfred frowned. Even so, he stood his ground (as he was brave and some burglar wasn't going to scare him off), and watched as the dim lights coming from the store slowly illuminated the man's face until it was recognizable and he was too close. "Oh… _shit_," he breathed, pushing himself up against the brick wall as Arthur Kirkland – _Arthur Fucking Kirkland_ – approached him, shoving him further into the wall of the building with a snarl on his lips.

"'Oh shit' is right, you miserable prat. Just who do you think you are, hmm?"

Alfred swallowed thickly. Now this was a situation he never thought he'd find himself in. If Arthur Kirkland beat the living shit out of him, maybe he'd get famous just for being the victim – that wouldn't be _so _bad. But in a sudden decision of stupidity, Alfred squared his shoulders, blowing a pink bubble and popping it as loudly as he could and said, "Alfred F. Jones, at your service. Whaddya want?"

Arthur's temper flared at the casual, nonchalant tone. He reached up with a snap of nimble hands and gripped Alfred's collar tightly, pulling the American closer to his face. "Give me three reasons why I shouldn't… shouldn't _rape _you right now!" he demanded, quickly searching his brain for the most offensive thing he could think of. For a brief moment Alfred's eyes widened and he almost congratulated himself, but then Alfred's face melted into an amused smile.

Never had Arthur so heavily wished bodily harm on anyone (with the exception of Francis and a paparazzi member or two). "Easy enough. Let's see, first of all, it's kinda public here – there's cameras everywhere, do you know how often Micky Dee's get's robbed? Second, your get-away bus left you stranded; and third…" The American trailed off meaningfully, his voice dropping a few octaves as he simply mumbled, "_You can't rape the willing_."

There was a long, eerie silence as they both wondered if they'd made a grievous mistake somewhere along the line. And it must have been the side-quirked smile or those too blue to be true eyes, or maybe the fact that this guy was the first in a long time to tell him _'no'_ and fuck, if that wasn't a turn on; but it must have been a combination of those things that made him ask, low and sultry, "Promiscuous, are we, love?"

"Not always, no. But I'm offerin'; take it or leave it."

And maybe it was that attitude – the one that made Arthur want to ravage the boy and beat him to a bloody pulp all the same. Alfred made it sound like it was an _inconvenience_ to sleep with him – him! _Arthur Kirkland_! Who wouldn't give for a night with a celebrity (American or not)? And if there wasn't something sexy about that, he'd be damned. "Have you a car? There's a hotel nearby I was going to shack up at."

Alfred chuckled lightly. "You make an interesting proposition, Mr. Kirkland." He pulled an ancient set of jangling keys from his pocket and grinned. "Just point me in the right direction."

Normally the ride to the hotel was one of the most painful moments of Arthur's life – ones normally filled with awkward silence or stormy sexual tension. But with Alfred, it was an easy, relaxed atmosphere within the old rusting truck. They talked comfortably as Arthur gave directions, and Arthur was mostly surprised that they talked about _normal _things – no 'what's it like to be so famous?' or 'can I have Francis' number?' types of questions that he was accustomed to. And even Alfred's bitter tongue seemed to have melted a little.

Once they were inside the cozy, upscale hotel room, Alfred had immediately unbuttoned his work shirt and said, "I have to take a shower. I don't want to smell like grease."

"Take a shower now and you'll just smell like sex afterwards," Arthur pointed out as he fell onto the king sized bed, kicking off his boots in the process.

Alfred grimaced at him from the doorway of the bathroom. "I'd rather let people know I get laid than that I work at McDonalds."

"I… well I see you have a point." He frowned a bit, standing from the bed. Fuck, this was taking far too long. He needed that boy like he needed his morning tea – and that was an absolute _must_. "I've a better idea. I'll join you." And before the other could protest, Arthur was pulling his shirt over his head, pushing the American into the adjacent bathroom.

The American made a startled noise before a small laugh escaped him. "Kinky bastard, aren't you?" he asked, finishing the buttons on his own uniform and working the fabric from his shoulders. "You don't seem like the type."

Arthur hooked up a full brow at the statement, leaning in the shower momentarily to turn on the water and showerhead. "Not the type? I'll have you know, if you've thought of it, I've probably done it – three times, three different ways. And no, I don't have a disease – I know that look, you smarmy tart."

Alfred grinned widely, not unlike a wolf, his pants already half undone, and he simply leaned into Arthur before biting the musician on the shoulder. Hard. Arthur winced and he watched the milky skin pucker in pinking lines where the American dragged his teeth. "Mmhm, I like the way you talk. Makes me kinda hot. Let's get this party started, yeah?" Soon his pants and boxers hit the floor and the American was in the shower, adjusting the water temperature and allowing the spray to wash enticingly down his back and over the curves of his rear.

"You… you little shit," was all Arthur could think to say. It was as if Alfred had transformed into a completely different person, but hadn't at the same time. His tongue was still sharp and abrasive, but the heated words that poured forth only seemed to rile Arthur up more than the fact of being rejected in the middle of a McDonalds. He quickly shed himself of his remaining clothes and slipped inside the shower behind the American, wasting no time to grab Alfred's butt cheeks in his hands. They were firm and warm and oh _god _he wanted so badly to bury himself deep into the American.

Alfred laughed. "Like whatcha see? 'Coz ya probably ain't ever getting ass like this again, old man." Arthur grimaced at the old comment and in retaliation he quickly pressed a finger into Alfred's entrance, making the American choke on a surprised gasp. "D-damn! Impatient fucker. You could at least let me scrub down or something. Fucking hell."

"After," Arthur bit out, returning the favor from earlier and biting the supple flesh of Alfred's back as he leaned in closer, slowly adding another wet finger into the American. "After I've finished shagging you into the wall; after you can't stand any longer; after you're so utterly spent that you can't even remember how to get home. Then you may scrub – if I let you."

"Controlling much?" Alfred mumbled, although he pushed himself against Arthur's nimbly moving fingers all the same. "Fucking hell, if I wanted to be told what to do, I'd be having sex with my mom."

Arthur groaned in disgust. "Does your mouth have an off switch, perchance?"

"Does your egotistic retardation have one too? Maybe then this'll work out nicely."

"I hate you."

"Then shut up and fuck me."

Arthur glared at the back of Alfred's head, his golden hair damp and sticking to the canvas of his tanned neck. He could almost see that lecherous smile and he added another finger with a scoff. It wasn't long after that that Alfred had finally shut up, his face flushed and panting with his legs spread as far apart as the bath would allow. Seeing the smart-mouthed American prone and willing; it made Arthur's insides twist into a heat and urgency that he wasn't used to encountering during his escapades.

He glanced over the hotel shower provisions: shampoo, soap, and conditioner. But then he decided he was still upset with the boy for – well, a lot of things – and decided that water was probably the best lube he deserved. Without much warning, Arthur replaced his working fingers with the head of his cock, watching with lustful green eyes as Alfred's ribs shuddered in a way that told him the American was attempting to repress gasps and moans. "If it feels good lad, just say so," he purred next to the shell of Alfred's ear, taking a quick nip at the cartilage.

Alfred wheezed out a slow laugh, pinching his voice a bit as Arthur began pressing himself further and further inside, enjoying the way Alfred's body nearly shook with anticipation. "You'd like that too much," Alfred managed to say, attempting to push his rear further towards Arthur, but the musician caught his hips in a hard grip. Alfred growled in growing sexual frustration. "C'mon, you… ugh… limey. Fucking limey; slow ass fucking limey."

"Limey," Arthur repeated headedly. He smiled a bit before snapping his hips forward the rest of the way, relishing Alfred's startled, yet smothered, cry. "You must be running out of names, love," he teased. And holy fuck was Alfred tight, hot and sweet against his cock. He rocked into the American's body with a pleased hum. It hadn't been _that _long since his last shag, had it?

Gradually he picked up his pace. Alfred's hands splayed out on the tiled walls for support, his back rising and falling with each shallow pant he made, the steam from the shower making both their heads feel light and their limbs jittery. Arthur reached around Alfred, taking the American's cock in his hand as he pressed closer, resting his cheek on Alfred's back and listening to each, "Mmn," and tiny, "Aah," or a light smack of his lips as the musician continued his relentless pace, nipping at the flushed skin before him.

Alfred came with a sharp hiss and no warning. Arthur fought back a moan as the American began clenching about him, squeezing him just right as he continued to thrust with his last resolve. He spilled himself into Alfred with a jerk, his hands starting to spasm their grip on Alfred's hips until he was spent.

"Jesus H. Christ," Alfred mumbled, pressing his face into the tiles with a tired sigh. "Didja have to come _inside_? And shit, my back's gunna look like I got attacked by a bear or something. I could feel you biting me the whole time!"

Arthur just gave the American a satisfied smile, adjusting the showerhead so the lukewarm water sprayed over his own head and shoulders. "Why don't you clean up, love, and I'll order room service. The least I could do for the shag."

The American gave Arthur and almost stupefied expression. "Liked it that much, huh?" He gave a short laugh. "Hell, if the food's good, I might even let ya have a second go." Alfred grimaced. "But get out; I need to get your gross cum out of my ass."

"Vulgar, vulgar," Arthur tatted, as he opened the shower door, grasping a thick white towel and wrapping it around his waist. Once he was out of the bathroom, he sat down on his bed, letting the past events wash over him like a tsunami. He had just fucked the McDonald's employee that had not only _rejected _him, but had also spat in his sandwich. And now he was offering the boy _food_? He should be shoving Alfred out of the door – half naked if he must – to happily slam the door on his face. That's how most of his one night stands went.

But somehow he felt Alfred was different. The American's vocabulary had something to be gained, but the lad was smart and bitter – about what, Arthur almost wanted to know. Alfred didn't ask him what it was like to be famous; he didn't seem to care about the other members of the band, or anything of the sort. It was as if he had no prior credit with Alfred, a clean slate, and there was something about that that drove him mad.

Quickly he picked up the provided phone and dialed for room service, ordering the steak and the fish, knowing that he'd eat either of them, but would let Alfred chose which he wanted – just for a shot at that second round the American had mentioned. The shower soon cut off and Arthur grasped for the remote, turning on the telly hastily to make it look like he was doing something other than wait for Alfred to rejoin him.

Alfred ambled from the bathroom, a towel around his waist and a smaller damp one draped about his shoulders. His uniform was crumpled up in his hands, and he raised a shapely brow at Arthur. "What're you lookin' at?" he asked gruffly, tossing his clothes on the floor by the foot of the bed.

"A bloody moron," Arthur replied easily, shrugging and attempting to peer around the American to see the television.

Alfred paused a bit, his stance tense with hesitation. "Didja, uhh, actually order food?" he asked quietly, biting his lower lip a bit as if he were trying to calm himself somehow.

Arthur's brows knit together in confusion and he sat up, crossing his legs and double checking that his dampened towel still hid his manhood. Sure he'd just had sex with the boy, but that didn't mean he felt he could just parade around naked all the time. He was _that _much of a gentleman at least. "I am a man of my word," he answered haughtily.

For a moment there was only silence between them as Alfred seemed to scan Arthur's face with suspicion. "Awesome!" the American proclaimed suddenly, falling onto the bed next to Arthur and spraying the musician with errant droplets of water. "I could probably eat a damn horse right about now."

"The shag was that great, was it?" Arthur found himself asking with a quirk of his brow, his green eyes narrowing in what he knew to be sufficiently seductive.

The grin that Alfred sent him was sharp and promiscuous. "You mean that foreplay in the shower?" he murmured, slowly inching his way across the bed towards Arthur, making the Briton's breath hitch in anticipation, "The real fun is still coming – after some grub and with some lube." He pulled a sudden face. "Definitely with lube. A guy can only take it raw so many times, you know?"

Arthur sighed despondently. "So vulgar," he grumbled as he fixed his towel around his waist. And he'd almost been turned on, too. "There's lotion in the end table, I'll have you know. That's as good as you'll find." He crossed his arms as a sharp rap came to the door.

"Works for me," Alfred said nonchalantly, beginning to rummage through said end table drawer as Arthur got up to answer the door.

"Room service," a meek young boy chimed as Arthur pried the door open, hiding behind the wooden panel to keep himself decent.

Arthur nodded, grasping the handle of the pushcart that they boy handled. "Thanks, lad. I'll call again for clean up." He pulled the cart inside the room, wheeling it towards the bed before kicking the door closed without another word to the boy. "Steak or fish?" he asked Alfred, pulling the silver tops from the two dishes and setting them on the underside of the pushcart before sitting himself on the bed.

The American's lips pursed heavily, his bright, sickening blue eyes trained on the meals settled before him. There was a long, tense moment of hesitation before Alfred sucked in a large breath, as if to muster his courage or gather his wits, and quickly grabbed the plate with the steak. "I ain't much of a fish guy," he said tightly, watching Arthur through narrowed eyes. "I know how they make that shit at Micky D's – no thank you."

"If you hadn't noticed, this isn't your pathetic excuse of a food chain," Arthur huffed, taking a fork into his hand and stabbed at the fish, watching with a pleased smirk as moisture beaded up around the punctures. Perfectly done – he wouldn't settle for less.

It wasn't until Arthur took his first bite of the fish that Alfred seemed to relax and begin cutting his steak with haphazard movements of his knife. They ate in a relaxed silence, watching the news on the telly. Arthur could feel himself relaxing with this boy – this _stranger_. He watched Alfred eat for a moment, his own meal finished (or at least mostly). There was something about the American that intrigued him so intensely… And suddenly there was a prominent thought on his mind, and it bloomed into a cascade of words and melody that hummed in the back of his skull.

But before he could think more on _"A sharp smile caging that venomous tongue and words so sweet and vile", _Alfred pushed away the cart and dishes, maneuvering onto his hands and knees to crawl up onto Arthur's lap. "So," the American practically purred, taking off his glasses and carelessly tossing them aside. "Round two?"

Arthur quirked a smile at Alfred, his fingers winding into the fluffy white towel that wrapped around the American's waist. "If you think you can handle it," was his reply before he threw caution into the wind and leaned upwards, taking Alfred's lower lip into his mouth and biting. Normally he found kissing to be more intimate than the deed itself, but he was infuriatingly curious about that quick tongue and all the things it could do.

Alfred seemed almost as surprised as he was at his own actions, but he adjusted quickly, pulling his lip from Arthur's teeth only to reassert himself with heavy nips at Arthur's mouth, his swift tongue lapping at teeth and tongue and cheeks and is all Arthur could do was let it happen – to try and not moan with want or submit himself to such a wonderful pleasure without getting his own taste, nipping and licking back with just as much fervor.

"You're not too bad at that, lad," Arthur breathed out when they parted for air. The fingers in Alfred's towel slowly began tracing the trail of hair leading down from his bellybutton, up and down, up and down.

Alfred's breath hitched a bit, his abs tightening with the lazy movements of Arthur's fingers. The American gave a repressed sigh before roughly pushing Arthur down onto the bed, his towel falling away with the movement. "I ain't gunna say this again – so listen close. I want to hear your voice, don't hold back, 'coz… it's beautiful and shit." Alfred flushed; his face was the very image of flustered petulance.

"Beautiful and shit, eh? I can honestly say I've never heard it phrased so eloquently," Arthur teased, prying off his own towel as Alfred settled himself on his thighs. "So tell me," he began, his fingers beginning to massage the inside of Alfred's thigh, slowly working his way inwards. "Do you listen to my music?"

Alfred's face pinched at the corners of his eyes as he attempted to keep a straight face through the sinful ministrations. "Y-yeah," he grumbled. "Kind of… Eee-Eliza let me borrow your guys' first album… and – woh…" He stuttered when Arthur began to fondle his balls, the pads of his fingers rubbing sensual circles in the sensitive flesh. "Shit. Fuck. Shit. I-I haven't… listened to any of the others… Haven't had… money… Nngh."

The Briton stopped his lavishing for a moment to look up at Alfred. "Our first wasn't… well received."

"So?" Alfred huffed indignantly, leaning forward to cage Arthur's torso between his arms. "I like it. So what the fuck does it matter?"

Later on it would be that comment that Arthur would blame. He would blame it for the way it made his heart thunder and stop, for the closeness he suddenly felt to someone who was a stranger to him, for how naked and raw he felt under that scrutinizing blue gaze.

Arthur clasped his hands behind Alfred's strong neck, his damp hair tickling at the insides of Arthur's wrists as he pulled the American down for a long, wet kiss. He could feel Alfred smile before taking a bruising bit at his lip, pulling away and dragging his teeth along the supple flesh. "Lemme grab that lotion," he mumbled, licking Arthur's abused lip before slipping off the musician's thighs, not without purposefully rubbing their groins together.

"You are… unbelievable." Arthur hummed as Alfred returned, easily positioning himself on Arthur's hips, popping off the top of the lotion with a thumbnail.

Alfred chuckled deeply. "I think you meant to say '_irresistible'_." Arthur scoffed, but choked when Alfred began to grind against him, leaning forward to flick that _amazing_ tongue across one of his pert nipples. "Remember what I said about your voice," the American mumbled, his fingers, slightly calloused, climbed their way up Arthur's sides until they met his chest, touching and flicking and rubbing.

Arthur tried not to gasp at the pleasure. Instead he let out a long sigh that hitched into a whine when the American bit down on the edge of his collarbone. One of Alfred's hands inched across the blanket, retrieving the opened lotion, his other hand teasing Arthur's pink nipple as the musician threaded his fingers into Alfred's golden hair, tugging until he heard the American hiss against his skin.

With a quirky squeeze the lotion splurged out of the bottle and onto Arthur's stomach. "Ahh-ha!" the Briton exclaimed breathily, his stomach muscles clenching at the sudden cold. "W-watch what you're doing… bloody idiot."

Alfred only smiled against Arthur's neck, slathering his fingers into the ribbons of lotion, dipping his finger into Arthur's navel briefly. "I'm warming it up, _duh_." His breath was hot and thick and Arthur shivered, pulling Alfred's hair tighter.

Once his fingers were thoroughly smattered with lotion he reached down between their legs and took Arthur's cock into his hand, squeezing it a bit as his hand began to slowly slide up and down. His smile turned into a sharpened smirk and he lifted his face from the hickey that would surely be on Arthur's neck in the morning. Arthur flushed, panting between his teeth, allowing his fingers to disentangle from thick locks of golden hair to follow Alfred's neckline, down to his shoulders, to splay his fingers across Alfred's built chest as he bucked up into the American's greased palm.

"Ahmnn – W-would… just – bloody hell…" Arthur grunted out, thrusting again in hopes to get more friction. Frustrated he tweaked one of Alfred's nipples, earning a startled yelp and a curse. "Don't be a tease," he growled at Alfred's indigent look.

"Jesus fucking Christ, you seriously have some fucking problems. Can't you just enjoy it for a minute?"

Arthur bit his lip, wincing slightly as his teeth grazed the swollen skin. His hips bucked up almost on their own accord and Alfred was sitting there, erect, with a shit-eating grin, his hand flexing around the musician's cock in a way that drove Arthur mad with lust. He wrapped his hands around Alfred's neck, pulling the American down once more to bite at the lobe of his ear, licking the shell before whispering hotly; frustrated, "Fucking get on, or I'll toss you to the floor and shag you so hard, you won't walk for a month."

In response Alfred nipped the soft skin under his chin. "Mmn, feisty and impatient. Fine. If it'll make you shut up and start moaning."

Alfred sat up, maneuvering himself onto his knees before taking a hold of Arthur's cock once again, running a greased thumb over the head and slit, causing the Briton shudder. Slowly, teasingly, running his tongue suggestively across his teeth; Alfred guided Arthur's cock to his entrance, allowing the tip of his cock to brush and circle against the puckered muscle, smearing lotion and precum, before settling himself down roughly.

"Auhh – fuck, yes." Arthur's hands dropped to Alfred's hips, feeling the American's muscles twitching beneath the pads of his fingers. Alfred pulled himself up, splaying his hands into the blankets on either side of Arthur's chest, before pushing himself back down, his face pinched and flushed, but his eyes – so startling blue – remained trained on Arthur's face as he began riding him in a steady rhythm, occasionally swirling his hips to get a new angle that had Arthur biting back gasps.

Arthur let his hands roam free, exploring the dips and curves of Alfred's legs and backside. The American's thigh muscles quivered as he repeatedly pulled and pressed himself onto Arthur with small pants and smacks of his lips as his tongue darted out to lick at his drying lips.

It wasn't long until Arthur was thrusting up into Alfred with a sense of urgency and want, pushing himself in further and deeper as his wandering hands found their way to Alfred's blushing cock, his fingers wrapping around the engorged organ and squeezing. Alfred whined a bit in his throat, but remained focused on keeping his tempo, a light sheen of sweat tantalizing his tanned skin from effort.

"Don't be shy," Arthur breathed, letting out a particularly pleased groan when Alfred clenched his cheeks and slid down. "Your voice isn't all that bad, either…" And before the American could make a smartarse retort, he brushed his finger along the underside of Alfred's cock, beginning to stroke and squeeze each time Alfred went down. His fingers rubbed in all the ways he knew would drive any man crazy.

Alfred came with a strangled noise, his cum spurting onto Arthur's stomach to join the smeared mess of lotion and sweat. The American gave no warning as he shook, his muscles tightening and flexing about Arthur's buried cock, his barrel-shaped ribcage heaving with his shuddering breaths before he fell forward onto Arthur, his lips brushing against the Briton's collarbone as he mumbled. "So fucking good…"

Arthur chortled, pushing Alfred to the side and snapping his hips back into the American. "We're not done yet," he growled as Alfred gasped in surprise. Possessively – and oh God was he possessive over this boy already – he bit down onto Alfred's shoulder as he thrust desperately, grasping at his finish until he came inside Alfred for the second time that day.

But what surprised them both – or maybe it had disturbed them, he couldn't remember – were the words that tumbled from his lips during that climax; lusty, thick, and tight.

"_Be my groupie."_

* * *

><p>End of Part One.<p>

Wow… uhm. Yeah. There's only three parts in total – and this one is probably going to be the shortest of them by far. There's a plot to this… I promise. ^-^;; And there will be USUK in the future chapters… not just UKUS… Yeah.

/goes to crawl in a hole and die of embarrassment


	2. Chapter 2

**My Misfit**

_Part Two_

Alfred simply blinked in a mute disbelief, watching as Arthur covered his flushing face with his hands. A moment later he laughed, deep and bitingly pinched with sarcastic amusement. "Yeah fucking right, like I'd fall for that!" he exclaimed, sliding off of Arthur with a grimace, semen running down the insides of his thighs.

"You think I'm lying?" Arthur sat up as well, turning his acidic green eyes to the American. Alfred glared back just as venomously. "I wasn't lying."

The American huffed. "Right. I'm just going to believe everything you say because you're rich and famous and I'm just some poor nobody – fuck that. I know your type. You think that just 'coz you got money you're better than me, and that 'coz I work at McDonalds, I'm stupid or some shit. But let me tell you right no—ahmph!"

Arthur slapped his hand over Alfred's mouth, effectively cutting off anything he was about to say. "Don't say another word," he hissed, pushing Alfred down onto the bed so he could tower over the prone American. "I'm not some sick fuck. I wouldn't say something like that if I didn't mean it. I am more of a gentleman than you give me credit for, you twat. And if not that, I am, at the very least, a man of my word."

Alfred slowly peeled Arthur's hand from his mouth, remaining silent for a heavy moment, merely staring Arthur down before sighing. "So, what? You want me to just up and leave? Fucking frolic off on some adventure with your band or some shit?"

"What do you have holding you here?" Arthur asked instead, sitting on Alfred's thighs, his fingers tracing the curves of the American's abdomen.

Blue eyes found his after a thoughtless moment. "To be frank; not a damn thing."

Arthur smiled and covered Alfred's lips with his own.

-o-

"My mom still hasn't forgiven me for taking off like that," Alfred said, sighing in contentment as he leaned back into his lover's chest, a pair of warm lips leaving trails of kisses down the side of his neck.

"No offense," Arthur murmured softly, his hands exploring skin that he knew all too well, "Your mum's a bit of a skank." Alfred chuckled, nodding in agreement as his hands caught Arthur's. "Hm, and what shall we do now?"

The American smirked, twisting around to look at Arthur. "Well, I don't know. You're the dumbass that brought me here. So why don't _you _tell _me_."

"Gladly…"

-o-

"Where on earth did you find a cutie like him?" was the first thing any of the other band members said when they pulled up to the hotel in the tour bus. Alfred and Arthur shared the same scowl as Francis began walking circles around Alfred, tapping his chin in a very exaggerated way before attempting to lift Alfred's shirt.

The American quickly slapped his hands away. "Don't touch me, you fucking dickweed," he snapped irritably, making Arthur snort loudly in amusement.

Arthur wrapped an arm around Alfred's waist, pulling the reluctant blond to his side. "Mine," he said. His voice was a deep growl as his venomous green eyes pointed towards Francis, leering at his bandmate, as if daring the Frenchman to try and take Alfred. Francis merely shrugged, murmuring something in French and walked back to the bus. Gilbert and Antonio seemed unaffected by the display and Alfred assumed that the whole idea of randomly picking people up off the street wasn't exactly new to them. "Also, Antonio, give Alfred some of your clothes – you're about the same size."

And with that the American was shuffled onto the tour bus. He had sent his mother a text and hid the keys to his truck in the glove-box so she could pick up the vehicle later. She had simply texted him back with, "_OK fine is thr gas in the truck?_" Alfred was surprised she even responded.

Antonio's clothes fit Alfred well enough and he thanked the bassist begrudgingly, mumbling under his breath and crossing his arms sharply when Antonio said it was fine.

"So you live in that pit of a town?" Gilbert asked after a while of driving. The group sat on the long, leather upholstered benches that were bolted against the walls of the bus. Francis strummed absently at an acoustic guitar, humming something in French under his breath. Alfred grimaced.

"Yeah? So what if I did? You got a problem with it?"

Gilbert's face scrunched up, obviously torn between how he should feel about their newest guest. "Are you always this confrontational? Damn. You sure know how to pick 'em, Arthur."

"Shut the fuck up, Gilbert," Arthur hissed.

Francis tatted, tapping the strings of his guitar to hush the notes that vibrated from them. "I agree with our unfortunate friend –"

"_Don't call me that you twat!"_

"- we should at least give this strapping young man a chance, no? Tell me, Alfred was it? What about our band do you like? Obviously we're not as popular here as we are across the Atlantic."

Francis gave Alfred an expectant look and as soon as Alfred's mouth was half-open, Arthur slapped a hand over it, fearful of what the American might say and embarrassed for what he knew the American _would _say. "I think that's enough of that," Arthur sputtered, removing his hand from Alfred's mouth and grabbing the blond by the arm. "Don't disturb us."

The French guitarist rolled his eyes, strumming his fingers along the instrument's strings easily. "_Oui, oui,_ try and keep it down? You never know, we may attempt to have a civilized conversation up here."

Arthur and Gilbert both snorted. "I wouldn't count on it, Frenchie," Gilbert cackled as Arthur led Alfred towards the back of the bus.

In the far back there was a small room, cut off by a sliding door and a lock. There were a few instruments and sheet music littering the floor with a wide bed pushed towards the corner. It was simple and messy and very different than Alfred imagined what a famous rock star's bus room should look like. Although he had no idea what he was expecting in the first place. "Look," Alfred was saying as Arthur sat him down on the bed, hands resting on his shoulders. "I don't know about you, but twice last night is more than enough for me."

"Would you shut up for five seconds?" Arthur groaned, sitting next to Alfred and pulling a pen and notebook into his lap from the floor. "I just wanted to speak to you privately for a moment. Not everything is about sex."

For a time, Alfred looked stunned, his eyes incredibly blue and utterly _American_, and Arthur elbowed him in the arm, muttering something along the lines of, '_stop being a dolt'_. "Right. It's hard to tell with your type, yanno." He paused, looking highly uncomfortable. "You wanted to talk?"

"I don't understand you," Arthur began, tapping his capped pen against the paper of his notebook. "You have no issues with intimacy, but a simple conversation puts you on edge?"

Alfred grimaced heavily. "Sex isn't intimate and you know it. It's like… fuck, what the fuck do you want me to say? If you're lookin' for something deep or some shit, you're asking the wrong person."

Arthur quirked a quick smile. "On the contrary, I believe you've something interesting going on in that head of yours." He paused, staring at the American through squinted eyes. "But I can never be sure."

"Look, let's just forget this whole thing, alright? So, starting over: What the fuck do you want?" He crossed his arms as Arthur chuckled, uncapping his pen and setting the point to the paper. "I don't get what's so damn hilarious. Why the hell did I agree to this again?"

The musician smiled. "Because who doesn't want to pick up and leave at least once in their life? And there's even less who truly get the opportunity. So, better question: Why wouldn't you?"

"Other than the obvious fact that you're a narcissistic bastard and your band mates are stupid cum-dumpsters? Not a damn thing, really."

-o-

Alfred hummed, distracted and unfocused as he clutched the pillow beneath his head tightly. Arthur was bent low between his spread legs, leaving long, languid licks across the underside of his erection.

Arthur's hands moved from his hips, rubbing circles into the insides of his thighs, to tracing his fingers around his balls. "Hnn, ah- w-would you just hurry?" he griped, trying to restrain his hips from moving when Arthur took his cock into his mouth. Alfred's breath hitched, his ribs shuddering as he tried to calm his breathing. Arthur's tongue was hot and quick; an overwhelming sensation against his cock and he did his best to silence himself, refusing to give Arthur verbal satisfaction. "J-just _fuck me, dammit!_"

There was a banging on the door followed by Francis' tired voice. "You heard him, just _finish_. Your wails of sickening pleasure are difficult to ignore when attempting to sleep."

Arthur sat up, Alfred's cock sliding out of his mouth with a wet pop, making the American smother a moan. He reached across the bed, picking up a shoe from the floor and threw it the right of the door. "No one cares about your sleep, frog! We'll be as loud as we like!"

A few grumbles came from the other side of the door, but nothing more. Alfred looked at Arthur with a sharp, impish stare. "Should I scream for you?"

"What?" Arthur balked.

Alfred smirked. "Yeah, I'll do that, c'mon, it'll be great. Where's that lube? Just stick your dick in, before it's not funny anymore." Quickly the American located the bottle of half used lube, squirting a glob of it into his palm and squeezed his fingers around the substance until oozed between his knuckles. He wrapped his hand around Arthur's cock, generously greasing his erection before lying back with a crooked smile.

"What're you planning," Arthur asked; his breath was warm against Alfred's sweaty skin. The musician crawled over Alfred, covering the American with his own body and ghosting soft touches to the curves of Alfred's muscles with the tips of his fingers.

"Live a little," was his only response and Arthur sighed. He bent his head low, his forehead against Alfred's shoulder as he pressed the head of his cock into Alfred, sinking himself in slowly and twitching with pleasure.

Alfred's head tilted back, and moaned huskily. "Oh, _Arthurrr_!" he called out to the ceiling of the bus, "More! Arthur I want _more_!" Arthur almost stopped, flushing and embarrassed, but feeling far too aroused to do anything other than continue, sliding out and snapping his hips back in. "Arth-chach-Arthur!" Alfred choked, his hands winding into Arthur's hair and pulling. "Oh, your dick is _so big_, Arthur."

Arthur chortled, falling onto Alfred's chest when his legs wouldn't support him during his laughing fit. The American's arms wrapped about his shoulders. "Goddammit! Will you _shut up _in there?" Gilbert yelled, pounding on the wall next to the bed they shared. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

"You really think my dick is big?" Arthur asked once his choked laughter had ceased and he had managed to find a decent pace with Alfred, thrusting in swiftly and pulling out slowly. His curious fingers followed the valley of the American's tight abs, stroking his thick erection when his hand dipped low enough.

"Well, I guess your dick is big _enough_," Alfred moaned out, hissing and mumbling obscenities to himself whenever Arthur bit at his tanned skin or when the Briton's cock rubbed against his prostate at just the right angle.

When their climaxes began approaching rapidly, Arthur leaned over and kissed Alfred, nipping at his parted lips as they gasped into one another's mouths. Alfred's cock was hard and heavy in Arthur's hand, leaking pre-cum from it's slit as Arthur stroked him into completion, following soon after.

They tangled themselves into a sticky mess of sweaty limbs and semen, pulling the blankets about their shoulders as the sway of the moving van rocked them to sleep.

-o-

The first Empire concert Alfred attended was in Oklahoma City. He was ushered backstage by a pair of anonymous men with headsets and clipboards, a young woman following behind with a large VIP pass dangling from her neck. They had the "rare" opportunity to watch form the sidelines as the band set up, walking under a bright sheen of lights of various colors; the crowd screaming and cheering at the mere sight of them.

Alfred was rather unimpressed.

The girl next to him bounced on her heels, humming cheerfully to herself as the first song began. "Oh, this is so _amazing_," she cried over the roaring speakers as Francis began plucking out a rift that Alfred was unfamiliar with, the audience both growing hushed and oppressive at once. "It's just so _magical_."

"I'm utterly blown away, sure," Alfred answered dully, picking at his nails with disinterest. Secretly he hoped Arthur would look his way, just to see how completely he was affected by the Briton's position and fame. He never did and the American was disappointed.

The girl frowned at him. "If you don't like them, why're you here? I swear, why couldn't they have given your pass to someone that actually _cares_?"

Alfred rolled his eyes, leaning against a support beam, only to be scolded by a backstage technician. He grimaced. "Blah, blah, blah." The guitar rift ended gently, a single note wafting high in the air - alone until Arthur's voice joined it, starting low and soft and slowly growing in volume. The girl opened her mouth to retaliate, but Alfred cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. "Hey, shut up. He's singing. Just fuckin' listen. It's what music's for."

"Rude," the girl hissed under her breath, folding her arms under her small cleavage and turning her eyes back towards the stage.

Alfred didn't care much of what she thought. Instead he closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of Arthur's voice and the words he sang. He had never heard this particular song before, and he tried not to make himself impressionable as he listened to the sweet lyrics of a lover crooning to his lost beloved.

"I wish that song was about me," the girl sighed out wistfully, clasping her hands together and swaying. "It's so romantic!"

"No it's not," Alfred grumbled. He wished he had brought a pack of gum with him and instead chewed on the inside of his cheek absently. "It's about being left behind, but still in love. You'd know that if you'd just fuckin' listen like I told you to."

She nearly snarled at him. "_That's_ the romantic part! God!"

Alfred pressed his face into his hands, refusing to answer when a few of the tech crew members began to give him odd, defensive looks. He wasn't going to get kicked out just because some girl was too stupid to know the difference between a sad song and a love song. Instead he popped the top button off of Antonio's shirt, putting the button in his mouth and rolling it between his teeth.

For the rest of the concert Alfred forced himself to remain quiet as the girl giggled and babbled about the band members, incessantly repeating how attractive each of them was and her favorite attributes about each. He was both upset and pleased that she had the least facts about Arthur. The air was thick and heavy as the lights produced more and more heat. A box fan in the corner simply pushed around the stagnant air that smelled of oil and rubber. Alfred grimaced and leaned against the support beam again, despite the sharp warnings sent his way by the staff.

"Thank you all for coming tonight!" Arthur was yelling into the mic, the overhead lights gleaming off the sweat on his pearly skin. "We're _The Empire_ and goodnight!"

He waited anxiously as the band trotted his way, waving and blowing awkward kisses at the crowd as they went along. Someone flung a bra onto the stage, which Gilbert caught, waving it around a bit and stuffing it into his pocket. "Oh, oh, oh my God they're coming this way! Oh my God!"

Alfred ignored her, instead he caught Arthur's eyes with his own. The singer smirked, ignoring the girl and walking up to Alfred, cupping his face into his moist palms and kissing the American harshly. The girl made a strangled noise of surprise, blustering further when Francis settled his arm around her hips. "Hello, _ma chérie_, are you our surprise guest for the night?"

"Why do you have a _button _of all things, in your mouth?" Arthur asked, his brows furrowing deeply as he pulled the brown button from Antonio's shirt out of his own mouth.

The American only smiled cheekily. "It's hot in here. Let's go outside real quick."

Arthur cast a glance back at the band, satisfied that they were occupied with the fan before taking Alfred's wrist and dragging him out a side door. The air was cool in the late spring night, and Alfred gulped at it like it was his first breath after breaking water from a long dive. "That first song you sang," he started, pushing Arthur into the concrete wall and kicking over a pile of crate boxes, "Tell me about it."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Arthur's hands found their way around Alfred's neck as the American licked at the beaded sweat on his exposed neck and Arthur tilted his head to the side with a hitched breath.

"What it was about..." Alfred pulled back and cupped his hand boldly onto Arthur's crotch. "I wanna know why you wrote it."

The night was quiet around them - the rush of people leaving the stadium a noise far off in the distance. Arthur swallowed. His limbs were tired and his hair felt itchy from being under what was basically a heat lamp for the past four and a half hours, and having Alfred rub him through his already too tight jeans didn't help the swimming sensation that he felt in his head. "It's a newer song," he murmured, pressing himself closer to the wall behind himself for support. "About... someone that left."

Alfred snorted. "No shit, genius. I wanna know who, when, and why. I... just tell me."

Arthur looked at Alfred through narrowed eyes, sizing up the American for a long moment. "I see. You're envious, are you not? Jealous. The mighty Alfred! Oh! Now that's rich!" Arthur chortled loudly, despite the darkening expression on Alfred's face.

The musician's laughter was cut short when Alfred undid the front of his trousers, slipping a hand inside and palming his cock. "You're not wearing underwear," Alfred mumbled, his head falling back to Arthur's shoulder to lick at his collarbone.

"A-ahh! W-well, you wouldn't either, if your trousers were... hmm, this tight." Arthur leaned onto Alfred, panting and cursing as he was steadily brought to a flushing erection. He keened in the back of his throat softly as Alfred's fingers rubbed at the sensitive underside of his cock. "If you really want to kn-ooh, uhn, the song was for... my ex..."

Alfred didn't say anything, just scowled before falling onto his knees in front of Arthur. "People are so fucking stupid," he said, wrapping a hand around the base of Arthur's hard cock. "I really hate people for being so fucking dumb." Before Arthur could question the sandy blond's words, Alfred took his cock into his mouth, swirling his sharp tongue around the head before pushing his lips to meet his knuckles at the base of Arthur's cock.

"Fa-uuck!" Arthur hissed, his knees shaking as his slim fingers wound into Alfred's messy hair. He thrust frantically into Alfred's mouth, slurping stray spit from his lower lip through his teeth. "Wh-what's... gotten into you-nnngh!" Slowly he slid down the wall, the concrete scratching at his shoulders as he went down, his knees spreading further and further apart to make room for Alfred, who only moved down with him, never stopping.

"Alfred... Ahh-lfred... why a-are you...? _A-ah! _Alfre-ed!" His hands ran through Alfred's hair as the American worked him with skilled lips and tongue, bobbing his head and swallowing when Arthur came hard and breathless.

Alfred wiped his face, smearing a bit of semen across his chin. "Whoever your ex is..." He trailed off, looking uncertain before shrugging his broad shoulders. "Let's get back."

Dazed, Arthur blinked up at Alfred as he stood, holding out a hand towards the Briton. "Yes. Right." He took Alfred's hand, his fingers brushing against the American's wrist. He wasn't sure what was happening, but as Alfred helped him make himself decent once more, he decided that it wasn't a bad occurrence at all.

-o-

The girl from the first show, much to Arthur's displeasure, became a permanent fixture on the tour bus. Her name was Chantal and she had fallen for Francis' charms, or lack thereof. Arthur wasn't appreciative of her presence, as all she did was giggle, scratch at Francis' filthy beard, and spout random things about the band and its members that she had seen online.

"Oh and about that time when Arthur punched that one paparazzi guy in the face when he had his camera..."

Arthur groaned, laying across a leather seat with his head in Alfred's lap as the American played a game on Gilbert's PSP, chewing his gum loudly. "That _didn't_ actually happen!" he said for what might have been the hundredth time that day. Alfred took a moment to pat his head in the most patronizing way possible before returning to his game. "Bastard."

Chantal frowned at him, snuggling up to Francis and giving a sickening smile when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Well, how am _I _supposed to know! I'm just repeating what I've heard. I just want to see if it's true is all!"

The atmosphere on the bus was tense. Gilbert drummed an unrecognizable beat on the tops of his thighs with the palms of his hands. Finally Alfred looked up from his game, watching Arthur scowl deeply at the ceiling. "And that's what makes you such a dumb bitch," he said easily, blowing a bubble and popping it with a gnash of his teeth. Chantal gaped, her brown eyes wide and expression obviously offended. "How hard is it to make your own opinion, huh? Didja ever think of that? Probably not, sorry, I forgot how terrifyingly hard it must be for you to think."

"You... you..." Chantal's mouth opened and closed with disbelief. When Francis said nothing in her defense, she stood, her fists at her sides as she nearly screamed, "You're a fucking _bastard_! I hope you go to _hell_!"

"I already am in hell!" Alfred shouted back as she stomped her way into Francis' "room". "God, she's such a fucking dick-dump."

Francis stood, brushing off the front of his blouse with bored strokes. "Ah, well. I suppose I'll go cheer her up, if you know what I mean," he said easily, sending them a wink before following after Chantal.

Gilbert and Antonio shared a high five, relaxing into their respective spots. Arthur looked up at Alfred. "I think I love you," he muttered jokingly.

Alfred glanced down at him, pausing, before huffing indigently. "Shut up, you stupid bastard."

-o-

After the show in Atlanta, Alfred and Arthur wandered the streets, laughing and snorting as they drunkenly weaved their way through crowds of people, pushing each other into walls and into darkened alleys. The summer air was thick in the south, even at night. Cicadas could be heard singing loudly through the evening, steadily giving way to the crickets and mosquitoes.

Arthur wore his sunglasses and an over sized hoodie, not necessarily attempting to hide his identity. Hardly anyone recognized him anyway. But the hoodie was Alfred's and he had stolen it just to smell the traces of cologne on the collar as he drank at a local bar.

"We should do something fun," Arthur was saying as he walked next to Alfred, his hands in his hoodie pockets while he attempted to walk down the sidewalk without stepping on the cracks.

Alfred snorted, running into Arthur purposefully and making the Briton step out of place. "You wouldn't know fun if it bit you in the face, old man." Arthur grumbled at him, knocking into him in retaliation and making Alfred run into a passerby. "Watch where the fuck you're going, prick," the American spat. "Fucking people, goddamnit!"

"Well, when I said 'fun' I meant... _fun_. You know... the bus is empty." He staggered, into Alfred, looping his arms about the American's waist and laughing, warm and dumb to the world around them.

Alfred laughed, too, pulling off Arthur's sunglasses and clipping them onto the front of his shirt. "You're drunk and stupid," he said uselessly, tangling his hands into Arthur's hair as the blond leaned into him, nipping at his neck.

The musician hummed, fingers burying into the fabric of Alfred's shirt. "So are you, so I don't see a problem. Drunk, drunk, drunk - I just want to feel you all over me. Don't gotta be drunk to want that, hmmm?"

"I guess not," was Alfred's grunted reply. Arthur pulled at him, the sleeves of the hoodie were too long, and slipped over his hands as he wrapped them around Alfred's bicep. "H-hey dipshit," Alfred said, choking on a laugh as he pulled Arthur in the opposite direction, "The bus is over this way!"

Numbly the musician followed him through the streets, laughing and tripping over himself when he wasn't mumbling obscenities and complaining how it was taking too long to find the bus. Alfred tried not to seem amused, but the alcohol was tickling and warming at his face and the buzzing behind his ears was enough encouragement for him to continue on.

They pried open the bus doors with warm, heavy fingers, delighted to find that absolutely no one was on the bus that night. Arthur's too wet lips covered Alfred's clumsily, leaving trails of saliva as the American tried to maneuver them into the far room in the back without falling down. "C'mon you idiot, the bed..."

Arthur snorted, wrapping his arms around Alfred's neck and jumping onto his back. Alfred stumbled, catching himself on one of the seats and groaned. "Shit, you're heavy as fuck," he grumbled, to which Arthur only giggled, licking at the shell of his ear as the American carried him into the back to sit on the bed. He peeled Arthur off his back with a long sigh, pushing the musician into the strewn blankets with a hand.

"Alfred, Alfred come here," Arthur said, cupping Alfred's face between his hands as the American crawled up his prone body. "Alfred... can you touch me?"

"I was plannin' on it," Alfred sighed out, Arthur's hot panting breaths pushing his hair from his forehead and fogging his glasses in the humid Atlanta heat. His fingers found their way under Arthur's hoodie, tracing nonsense patterns into the Briton's skin.

Arthur shook his head, pulling Alfred's face closer to his. His eyes were half-lidded and he blinked slowly up at Alfred. "No, I mean... touch me like - like you love me. Just pretend. I miss... I miss being loved."

Crickets could be heard singing in the shade beneath the bus. Alfred pulled Arthur's hands from his cheeks, studying Arthur's face with a blank expression. "Yeah. Okay. I can... do that." He pursed his lips momentarily before crawling off the bed. He searched around the floor for a few moments, picked up a wrinkled bandanna from one of Arthur's stage costumes and half a bottle of soda.

"What have you there?" Arthur asked, as he stripped himself slowly, watching Alfred with a drunken curiosity.

Alfred grunted an unintelligible answer, pulling his shirt over his head before sitting back down onto the bed. "I want... I'm going to blindfold you, alright? It'll make everything better, I swear." Arthur seemed reluctant and Alfred reached out, tucking a lock of hair behind the Briton's ear. "You can just imagine whoever you want, 'kay?"

Frowning, Arthur nodded with a dip of his brows. Alfred rolled the bandanna into a strip and tied it around Arthur's eyes, careful not to get the blond's hair stuck in the knot. "Why can't it be you?" Arthur mumbled as Alfred finished pulling off his trousers the rest of the way. Alfred gave a sad smile, running his hands along the insides of Arthur's thighs.

"You don't want it to be me," he whispered before leaning down and licking at the musician's testicles, kissing at his limp cock and letting his fingers dance sweetly across the expanse of skin of Arthur's abdomen.

Arthur hupped, stuttering nonsensically and blindly winding his fingers into Alfred's hair. "A-ah! M-more, more! P-please...?"

Alfred sat up in the bed, grabbing the soda bottle as he examined Arthur's writhing body in the moonlight. His pale skin almost glowed, and he bent to kiss at the side of the Briton's knee. They probably wouldn't remember this night and he wasn't sure if he could be the gentle, loving partner that Arthur craved, but - and he blamed the thought on the alcohol - he figured he could try; just this once.

Around the bottle was a thin, nylon band and Alfred rolled it off, tossing the bottle aside as he searched the blanket for the lube. Arthur's legs spread as Alfred lightly coated his semi-erection and balls with the lube before carefully rolling the nylon band down Arthur's cock and stretching it over his balls to sit snugly behind his testicles. Alfred double checked the label on the lube, grimacing a bit when he read the words, "_cherry flavoured_".

"British lube," he grunted, letting the bottle fall back into the messy mountains of blankets. He leaned back over Arthur, setting his hands on the musician's hips as he began kissing and licking at Arthur's pale skin, closing his eyes and listening to the strangled pants and groans that drew themselves from Arthur's mouth. His fingers traced along the curves and dips of Arthur's lean muscles, teasing and stroking.

Hands explored their away across the canvas that was Arthur's body, finally reaching Arthur's face. He placed two fingers against Arthur's mouth, dragging the pad of his forefinger across the Briton's lower lip. "Alfred," Arthur mumbled, his tongue pushing past his lips to lick at the American's fingers; slow, wet, and hot.

Alfred shook his head, pushing his fingers inside Arthur's mouth. "I'm no one," he told Arthur, his voice soft and low, "I'm just... a nobody, alright? A... a misfit you picked up. Don't say my name. 'Coz right now, I don't have one."

Arthur didn't respond, just simply sucked on his fingers, his tongue twisting between the digits, lapping at the knuckles and humming.

The American pulled his hand away from Arthur's mouth slowly, pressing light kisses to the side of Arthur's moist lips as a silent gesture.

His hand found it's way to Arthur's ass, stroking his wet fingers carefully around the musician's entrance, his lips slowly making their way down Arthur's chest with sporadic open mouthed kisses against pearly skin. "Uuhn... M-more... I just want... I want... your love."

Alfred frowned and took Arthur's erection into his mouth, forcing his mind to go blank. He wouldn't allow himself to think. Not now. Not about this. Arthur gasped loudly, his hands burying themselves into the blankets. The American took the moment to press a finger into Arthur watching the Briton bite down on his lower lip and squirm, as if trying to burrow into the bed itself.

"Just enjoy it," Alfred found himself saying as he took a breath, blowing cool air onto the tip of Arthur's weeping erection. He pushed the cock ring down a little bit further and took Arthur into his mouth once again, trying not to grimace at the flavor of the lube that was definitely _not _cherry.

He took his time, sucking Arthur off as two of his fingers curled and prodded around for the Briton's prostate. Arthur writhed into the blankets his hands crawling across the bed in search of something new to grasp every few moments. He sighed long and hard, his hips bucking up into Alfred's mouth, who swallowed him easily, as he searched for release. His climax struggled against the cock ring and everything felt hazy and explosive to the point where he thought he might pass out from the overwhelming surge of sensation as the head of his cock was squeezed by Alfred's throat.

"L-let me come," Arthur pleaded at last, groaning and squirming, the heels of his palms pressing into the bandanna around his eyes. "Oh God let me come!"

Sitting up, Alfred worked the nylon band from Arthur's cock, bending down to wrap his lips around his head and stroking Arthur with his hand until the musician came into his mouth. Arthur jerked with his climax, stiffening and relaxing in intervals until he gave a final, long sigh and dropped his arms like dead weights by his sides.

Ignoring his own erection, he crawled up the bed to lay next to Arthur, hesitantly reaching out to pull the bandanna from Arthur's eyes. The Briton sighed contentedly, snuggling into Alfred's chest and mumbling half-words and yawning. Alfred simply watched him, stroking his messy hair until he fell asleep.

The American placed a small, tender kiss to Arthur's forehead. "I'm sorry," he murmured, "You should look somewhere else. I ain't... good enough for you."

He tucked the musician into the blankets as pent up tears of frustration and sadness trickled down the apples of his cheeks. For his sake and Arthur's, he hoped neither of them remembered this night.

-o-

"Hey, can I ask for a favor?"

Arthur looked up from what he was writing, capping his pen with a frown. "And what would that be?" he asked. Over the past few months both he and the band had grown tolerant towards Alfred's bitter behavior, sometimes even looking forward to it whenever the American and Chantal began to fight. Needless to say Chantal never won any of their verbal battles, but she had an undermining way of making everyone feel guilty or offended at the end of the day.

Arthur had spent many nights arguing with Francis about what to do with her, but they never seemed to make much headway. Arthur blamed it on the fact that Francis was a jealous, egocentric French bastard. Francis blamed it on the fact that Chantal was good in bed.

Alfred crossed his arms, peering down at Arthur's notebook. "What're you writing?"

"That's none of your business!" Arthur flipped the notebook to a blank page and sat on it, giving the American a level stare. "Now, what did you want already? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Fine, Jesus Christ. You don't have to freak the fuck out like that." He sat on the seat next to Arthur, folding his hands together and sighing against his knuckles. "Okay... so... we're headin' up north soon, right?"

"Yes, why do you ask?" Arthur's expression turned confused as Alfred fidgeted, pushing his glasses up his nose and frowning. "Alfred?"

The American blew out a strained breath. "Okay, so I have a brother," he said finally, the words tense.

Arthur raised a curious brow. "And? Alfred I don't understand what you're trying to say." He snorted and set a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Relax already. So odd..."

Alfred grimaced. "I'm trying to be... ah, fuck it. My brother lives in Canada. And I was... Get him a pass to the concert in Buffalo, okay?"

"You have... a Canadian brother? Well, that's interesting. Alright, I'll see what I can do. What's your brother's name?" Arthur pulled the notebook back out, uncapping his pen to write himself a quick note in large, bubbling handwriting.

"Matthew," Alfred said, watching Arthur write, "Matthew Williams."

Arthur paused. "Not Jones?" When Alfred's lips pursed he waved his hands about, about to retract his question, but Alfred beat him to it.

"It never was Jones. Mine was Williams, before... well... a lot of shit. Stupid shit that I'm sure no one cares about. But whatever. I just want to see my fucking brother." He huffed, hiding his face into the palms of his hands. "You don't have to do anything. I just... yeah. Are we done talking now?"

The Briton smiled lightly, finishing his note and setting the notebook and pen aside. "Of course." He pulled Alfred's hands away from his face, trying not to laugh at the scowl that cut into Alfred's masculine face. "If you don't want to use your mouth for talking, I can think of other things for it to do."

Alfred snorted, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "Shut up, you perverted limey."

Arthur only shook his head, flipping back through his notebook, continuing his work with a smile.

-o-

Walmart, Arthur decided was the definition of an American social dump. Alfred followed behind him, loudly smacking his gum and sending other customers looks of intense boredom as Arthur walked to the checkout, his arms full of boxes of tea and packages of cookies. Alfred grabbed a few packs of gum, waving them in Arthur's face before setting them onto the conveyor belt.

"Oh... _Shit_! Guys, guys where the fuck are you guys?" Gilbert's voice could be heard halfway across the store. Arthur stopped, his brows furrowing in irritation. The sound of boots slapping against the tiled floors, rounded in on them and the German drummer ran into them, waving around a magazine frantically. "Fuck, Arthur you need to look at this!"

"Will you shut up?" Arthur hissed, snatching the periodical from Gilbert. "Now what could be so..." His acidic green eyes scanned the front cover of the magazine, his words dying on his tongue. "Gilbert, where did you find this?"

The drummer shrugged, his hands balled up at his sides in obvious irritation. "'Toni found it over in the magazine racks. But that's not the problem - there's a picture of me in there! _Fuck! _Who's the sick fuck that followed me into the shower?"

Alfred plucked the magazine from Arthur's hands.

**The Empire, Exposed! Raw, Fresh, and Naked! See Inside for Delicious Shots!**

**You Won't Believe Arthur's New Toy! [Full story on pg. 12]**

Alfred quickly opened to the indicated page, scowling angrily as his vision was met with blurry pictures of him and Arthur together, kissing, sleeping, even a photo of them together obviously lost in passion on the bed in the bus. He tore his eyes away from the article. "Who the fuck did this? That's in the _bus_," he said, pointing at the picture harshly. "I'm going to fucking kill whoever did this. Make them into a fucking pair of boots after I skin their motherfucking ass."

A mother and her child shied by, and Arthur set a calm hand on Alfred's forearm. "On the bus?" he asked smoothly, glancing at the photo in question and flushing slightly. "Bloody hell... The media isn't even that bad back home. What is this shit?"

"'_They're only sex buddies. They only bicker and fight. I don't see why they've been together this long.' an inside source tells us. But after seeing a plethora of photographic evidence, the staff here is far more convinced these two won't be separated easily. We eagerly await more news on this couple."_

"Not even that frog would stoop this low," Arthur was saying, mumbling something about old friends and pacts. "I can't believe this..."

Gilbert huffed. "I bet it's that Chantal bitch. Look, there's even a picture of Francis sleeping with his hair a mess. No fucking way he'd let that out."

Alfred tucked the magazine under his arm with a sigh. "That stupid fucking whore. Since day one, I've been tellin' you guys how much of a slut she is but _no_! Aw, fuck. If my mom sees this..." He paused. "Well... Okay she probably wouldn't give a shit; but on principle. Fuck."

"I think it's time I had a chat with our dear friend," Arthur grumbled as he stepped forward to pay for their items.

"I hope someone dies," Alfred added spitefully, ignoring Gilbert's cackle.

-o-

To his credit, Francis was just as appalled by the magazine as the others were. He cursed fervently in French, glancing at the photo of his sleeping face a few times with a large grimace crossing his face. "I cannot believe this," he muttered, his fingers twitching around the pages. "That's such an awful shot - and that angle? Completely unprofessional." His eyes found Arthur's, squinting in disgust. "Why are you showing me this?"

Alfred sighed, ready to say something, but was cut off when Arthur hit him in the stomach. "Hush." The Briton turned to the page filled with candid shots of Alfred and himself. "We have cause to believe that your little bird is the reason behind this. Many of the photos in this article were taken on the tour bus and in many different cities. This isn't an accident nor happenstance." He threw the magazine down. "I want her gone. Gilbert and Antonio want her gone. Alfred will throw her off the a bridge for us." Alfred snorted.

Francis sighed heavily, picking the periodical back up to wince at the photo of his bedhead once again. "_Oui_, you make a valid point. Chantal - beautiful as she is - has gone back on her word. Ah... Well, I hope to find another. I don't know how you find them, Arthur. You lucky bastard."

Alfred let loose an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Sweet! Can we run her over with the bus? Maybe toss her into the ocean?"

"Or we could just leave her at the store. We're all accounted for, with her as the only exception. It seems cruel, but I can't think of a more fitting solution." Arthur tapped a finger to his forearm as Francis nodded slowly, frowning at the magazine and shaking his head sadly. Arthur pat his friend and band mate on the back sympathetically. He knew what it felt like to be bitten by the bitter sting of betrayal all too well.

The driver of the bus nodded at Arthur's request to continue onwards to the stadium that was still another four hour drive from the small Walmart in south Jersey. Gilbert snickered as the bus returned to the highway, elbowing Antonio in the ribs as the Spaniard chuckled. The only one who looked even relatively upset about the turn of events was Francis, but after about twenty minutes, he seemed to be able to shrug off his guilt and continue on patronizing Arthur as if nothing had ever happened to begin with.

And for that Arthur was grateful.

Alfred on the other hand felt that the entire exchange was too easy, too quiet. It also unnerved him as to how smoothly they had decided to just _leave_. He sat closer to Arthur, a frown on his face and an anxiety in his stomach that he refused to give a name to.

The noise of a cellphone jingling caught the band's attention. "Don't answer that," Arthur ordered, watching Francis' eyes dart to his pocket. "I swear to God, Francis, if you answer that bloody phone I will beat your French arse into submission."

Francis frowned, casting a long glance at each member of the band before standing and pulling his phone from his pocket and answering the call as he walked towards the back of the bus.

"I hope he doesn't ask to bring her back," Antonio mumbled, looking up from the screen of his own phone, pausing in the middle of typing a text message. "She gives me the chills, you know? Lovi says we should've thrown her under the bus a long time ago."

"Lovino wants to throw everyone under a bus - you included Toni." Gilbert laughed but hushed suddenly when Francis could be heard yelling something in sharp French. "Woah, it sounds pretty hardcore. I hope he's telling her off."

Alfred sunk lower into his seat, ignoring the odd stare Arthur sent his way.

That night they lay in bed as the bus swayed, rocking them into a slumber, Alfred stared up at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep, worry and questions poisoning his mind. He took a chance and glanced over at Arthur only to jolt in shock to find that the Briton was staring at him and not sleeping.

Arthur frowned. His eyes were dark and warm in the night, and he reached out and touched Alfred's chin gently. "Something's on your mind," was all he said.

"Yeah. I guess." Alfred rolled over to face Arthur, tucking the blankets under his chin with a petulant glare. "It's nothing that matters."

"Tell me." Arthur propped himself up on an elbow to tower over Alfred. "I'm tired of all this hiding, Alfred," he whispered, pressing his forehead down onto Alfred's. "Aren't we... we..."

Alfred grimaced. "Are we what?" He huffed, squirming into the blankets further with a scowl. "Didn't you read that fucking article? We're _fuck buddies_. I'm sure that was your intention when you picked me up in the first place, so why should it be anything else? Huh? Jesus Fucking Christ, Arthur, _what are we_?"

Arthur hesitated, squinting at Alfred through the dark. "What do you want to be?" he asked quietly, watching Alfred's expression carefully. "What do you want to be when this tour is over, Alfred? I need to know."

"I don't want it to be over," he answered, swallowing thickly. "That's the damn truth, too. I... I kinda like hanging with you guys. And... all that shit. Yanno? And... and I kinda like more than just fucking you. Although I _really _like fucking you."

The musician snorted, falling back down onto the bed and wrapping his arms around Alfred's ribs. "Well I quite enjoy you as well." He shimmed on top of Alfred, straddling the American with a smirk. "Alfred, this is a serious question, so no snarky reply: Do you want to stay with me? After the _Total Reign _tour ends and longer?"

Alfred quirked a grin. "Fine. Sure." He pressed a palm to his eye, choking on something that might have been a laugh or a sob - he didn't know. "As long as you never ditch me like you guys did Chantal, then you'll never be able to get ridda me." Alfred sighed through his nose. "I just... why me? I'm just some kid from a shitty suburb."

"A misfit, as I recall you calling yourself," Arthur murmured, kissing the side of Alfred's mouth. "Even a misfit has a place where they belong."

They chuckled, rolling in the blankets together, kissing skin and mumbling broken phrases in relief. When they had finally calmed down, the excitement of something new - something rekindled - coursing through their veins, Alfred tucked Arthur's head beneath his chin, as the Briton drifted off into sleep.

The future never seemed so unclear.

-o-

Matthew met him two hours before the concert was to start, loitering in front of the stadium, kicking smashed cigarettes around on the ground.

"You made it," was the only thing Alfred could think to say when he spotted his brother. It had been eight years, but Alfred could still recognize the Canadian in a crowd. "I'm uh... glad."

Matthew smiled. His golden hair was tied into a ponytail at the base of his neck, the same rounded glasses that he'd had in grade school were perched on his nose. "Hey Al. It's been a long time, eh? You're still great with conversations, I see."

"Some shit never changes, huh?" He gave a cocky grin before pulling Matthew into a tight hug, burying his nose into his brother's collar for a moment before finally ripping himself away with a pat on the back. "Fuck, I missed you. Things have been pretty shitty."

The Canadian laughed lightly. "I missed you, too. And I understand. Dad hasn't been himself, either, not since the last marriage."

Alfred grimaced, surveying the stadium parking lot and growing lines with blue eyes. "We should get inside before they start mobbing. But uh..." He snubbed his nose, before popping a bubble of gum. "Thanks for coming."

"I wouldn't miss a chance to see _The Empire _for free, you know. They're actually pretty popular over at my University." Matthew chuckled. "Oh, and I wanted to see you, too."

Alfred punched him in the arm before leading him inside through the side entrance, making sure to flash both his and Matthew's backstage passes at any questioning tech personnel. "I'm surprised you haven't asked me how I got your pass or nothing," Alfred told Matthew as the made their way to the side of the stage, watching the tech crew set up the sound systems and plugging in all the band's equipment.

"Over the years I've figured out that you're full of surprises, Al," Matthew answered easily, shrugging nonchalantly. "Although it does explain why you stopped texting me suddenly." His brother paused, worrying on his lower lip. "I saw... in a magazine... you know, _pictures._"

"Gotcha." He blew a bubble, popping it with his forefinger and pulling the residue from his face. "Uh... is there anything about it that bothers you or whatever? Or do you have questions or some stupid shit like that? Matt help me out here. Talking is bad."

Matthew laughed loudly, reaching over and slapping Alfred on the shoulder in amusement. "Some things really _do _never change, eh? Alfred I would have loved to see you in school - you'd make even the toughest guy in my class cry." His broad smile grew contented as he stood next to Alfred, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his red hoodie. "So are all those rumors true, then? About how you and Arthur Kirkland are... you know...?"

"_Together_? Yeah. They're uh... true. And the ones about Gilbert and Francis? Nope. Reporters and paparazzi are just a bunch of lying ass fuckwads. Francis is so metro-sexual it hurts and Gilbert? Uh, I'm pretty sure he's asexual or something. Antonio has a guy waiting for him back home, so if you hear anything about that, it's a lie, too."

"You sure know a lot about them," Matthew said, watching the stage crew work with dark blue eyes. Alfred shrugged and leaned against a pole, crossing his arms and preparing himself for the long haul. Concerts always seemed to last forever, and he hated being stuck backstage with the fans that won VIP passes. It was always awkward and put him in a bad mood. Matthew only hummed to himself, checking his phone every few minutes in silence. Even after all the time they had been apart Matthew still knew him best.

Alfred sighed. "Can I ask you a question? Hypothetical or whatever - or not. I just have a fucking question."

Matthew closed his phone with an amused look. "Sure thing. What's up?"

Alfred pushed away from the pole, running a hand down his face in frustration. "Okay. So what if... No - how about... _fuck_! I don't even know how to start!"

"You just want advice right? So, what's your problem?"

"I just want to fucking know if I should go to London with Arthur when all of this is over! I'm just so...! Ugh! And I keep having these stupid thoughts and doubts and shit and Matthew! I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do!"

Matthew caught Alfred's wrist, pulling the American to his side to keep him from pacing. "Here's a better question. Do you love him and does he love you?"

Alfred froze. "What kind of question is that?" he hissed.

Their conversation was interrupted by loud chatter and a shout of Alfred's name. "Alfred! Oi! Hey is that your _hermano_?" Antonio came barreling into them, catching himself on Alfred before turning to shake Matthew's hand excitedly. "Wow! You two look so much alike! Crazy!"

"O-oh! Ah, it's a pleasure to meet you!" Matthew stuttered out as Gilbert then took Antonio's place, smirking and clapping the Canadian on the back.

"So, this is Mr. Williams?" Arthur asked, giving Matthew's hand a stiff shake once Francis had his turn. When Matthew nodded meekly, flushed and overwhelmed by the band's cheerful greetings, Arthur smiled. "It truly is a pleasure to meet you, Matthew. You really do resemble Alfred." There was a call for a sound check on the stage and the singer blinked. "Oh, must dash. I do hope you enjoy the show." He dropped Matthew's hand and turned to Alfred, stretching up to kiss the American roughly. "Wish me luck?" he murmured against Alfred's mouth.

Alfred smirked into the kiss. "Like you need it," he muttered in response, kissing Arthur again and smacking his ass as the Briton sauntered away towards the stage.

Matthew coughed. "You two make an... ah... obscene couple," he said, a small smile worming across his face. He watched Arthur set up on stage for a moment. "Go with him."

"What?"

The Canadian only smiled secretively in response, rocking on the heels of his feet as the audience began to fill in. Alfred didn't pursue the subject. He had a feeling he would be too pleased with the answer.

-o-

The final concert of the _Total Reign _tour ended with massive fanfare. Fans screamed, the pyrotechnicians went out of their way to create a dazzling farewell at the final note of the final song. It was fitting, and Alfred caught up with Arthur afterwards, running his hands through the musician's sweaty hair and kissing him.

It was their last night together.

Alfred was still waiting for his passport to come in the mail - which would only show up at his home address nearly five hundred miles away. Arthur had promised to get him on the first flight to London once he was cleared.

Their hands wandered across their bodies, touching as if trying to memorize every single inch of each other. "It'll only be a couple weeks," Arthur was saying as they pushed their way into the hotel room, his hands already inside of Alfred's half-done trousers. "You'll have time to pack properly."

"Don't need to pack." Alfred fell onto the bed, pulling Arthur with him, smashing their mouths together, their teeth clicking together. He didn't want to have to say what was going through his mind. He wanted Arthur to feel it - to understand it simply through action. As if a kiss could say all the words that could never crawl their way from his throat.

He didn't want to part. Not yet. Not ever. There were too many doubts - too many insecurities. Alfred worked off Arthur's shirt, settling himself onto the Briton's hips and bending down to lap slowly at Arthur's nipples.

"Alfred..." Arthur panted through his nose, hips rolling up against Alfred. "Remember that night," he started, hands, running down Alfred's arms and back up, tracing the muscles and curves, "the night you... pretended to love me?"

The American stuttered, almost losing his balance and falling on top of Arthur, his face inches away from the musician's. "I..." He gulped, eyes darting around the room before settling on staring at Arthur's neck. "I'm shit at pretending, Arthur."

Instead of the disgust or shame or whatever Alfred had been expecting Arthur to show, the Englishman laughed, his voice pitched and laced with relief. "You utter moron," Arthur mumbled, wrapping his hands behind Alfred's neck, the American's golden hair tickling at the insides of his wrists. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"I'm shit at feelings, too," Alfred answered with a breathy laugh. He pulled the bottle of lube Arthur had told him to hold onto out of the pocket of his jeans, tossing it into the blankets as he began undressing the blond beneath him, slowly, taking his time to look and touch.

Arthur hummed happily in the back of his throat, pulling Alfred close when he finally naked and rolling over, trapping the American beneath him. "There's something I want to do," he said huskily, shimmying Alfred's trousers and boxers down his thighs and to his knees, waiting for the American to kick them off. "I know you're not well off with words, so I want to show you... how I feel, through actions. Is that fair?"

"I think you talk too much." Arthur only snorted, licking at the side of Alfred's neck and nibbling as his hand found the lube, popping open the cap and squirting it generously over his fingers. "Arthur?" He pulled off his glasses, watching the blond musician carefully.

Arthur spread his legs, dropping his head onto Alfred's chest as his slim fingers penetrated himself, stretching and working open his entrance. His breaths came out in warm pants, brushing over Alfred's chest and making the American shiver with excitement. Just listening to the small smack of lips and stunted moans that Arthur produced was enough to harden Alfred's cock.

"I'll make sure you don't forget," Arthur mumbled, pulling his fingers from himself and wrapping his lubed hand around Alfred's cock, stroking him until he was fully erect, his fingers digging into the pillows.

"It'd be hard to forget a whole damn year," Alfred bit back as Arthur positioned himself over his cock, Arthur's slender fingers guiding the head into his entrance. Quickly the Briton seated himself and Alfred's head tilted back, a raw moan ripping from his throat. "Oh, Jesus, oh fuck, oh fuck, you're so tight. Fuck _Arthur_."

Alfred's hands gripped Arthur's hips, holding him in place as they both breathed heavily. Arthur placed his hands on top of Alfred's. "I-I'm going... going to move now," he murmured, shifting and changing his angle before pulling himself up and sliding back down. Alfred's hands twitched as he helped Arthur lift himself, thrusting upwards when he began to slide back down.

They continued on, their pace growing quick and sloppy as Arthur rode Alfred's cock. The air was sweaty and filled with mumbled curses and smacks of tongues wetting lips, Alfred fondled Arthur, rubbing at the underside of Arthur's head and running his thumb over the slit, smearing precum before fisting the Briton.

Arthur keened in the back of his throat, coming with a terse curse, his semen spurting across Alfred's shuddering chest. Alfred pulled Arthur down to him, cradling his head to his shoulder as the musician rode out his climax. "Ready for the finish?" Alfred asked, half joking when Arthur finally relaxed against him.

"Give me your best." Alfred bit Arthur's lip before rolling over, pulling one of Arthur's legs over his shoulder before continuing, thrusting into Arthur as he sucked on the tender skin on the inside of the Briton's thigh. "_Ah-Alfred!_ O-ohh, fuck!" Arthur balled his hands into fists, pressing them against his face and moaning loudly.

Alfred came with a choking gasp, falling onto Arthur as his semen spilled into the musician. He bit down on Arthur's shoulder, the skin pinking and bruising with the action. He wanted everyone to know that Arthur Kirkland was _his_.

"I seriously love your voice."

Arthur chuckled, his eyes drooping tiredly. "And I love _you._"

The American grinned, not his usual snarky, sharp smile, or his 'you're a complete idiot' type of smile, but a genuine, true kind of grin that made Arthur flush happily as he snuggled next to him. A few weeks would be far too long to wait to have this boy back in his arms.

* * *

><p><em>Unimportant Notes:<em> /crawls into hole to die of embarrassment


	3. Chapter 3

**My Misfit**

_Part Three_

To say that the news of his arrival – and rather infamous attachment to The Empire Singer, Arthur Kirkland – was obnoxious and grossly widespread was an understatement. When he had stepped into the London airport he had expected to see Arthur, maybe be forced to say a few nice things to Antonio and Gilbert and then _accidentally _step on Francis' foot.

What he had _not _expected, was the ridiculous amounts of reporters, media bloggers, paparazzi, and all around nosy people that swarmed his gate. Cameras were flashing and snapping, microphones were being pushed into Arthur's face, who in turn said nothing, a massive scowl carved onto his mouth as questions floated about the entire area. Alfred grimaced, shouldering his backpack and stalking up to Arthur.

"Look! Excuse me are you Alfred Jones perchance? Is it true you're romantically involved with Arthur Kirkland of The Empire?" an overenthusiastic woman asked him, shoving a rounded microphone towards his face.

Alfred, looking a bit petulant and _very _out of his element, reached for Arthur, waiting for the Briton to take his hand before directing his scalding glare towards the woman. "Don't talk to me with that accent," he hissed as he began to pull Arthur away, through the crowds and towards the baggage claim. They hadn't seen each other in three weeks, and even though he hadn't been expecting a romantic reunion, not that he wanted one, of course, but this had to have been the worst outcome. "I don't need my shit. We can pick it up tomorrow or something. I want the fuck out of here."

Arthur's fingers wove around his. "I understand, and I apologize. Gilbert made a press leak about our relationship when he was on a talk show last week. I didn't think it would be this bad."

"Tell Gilbert he's a fucking cunt and I hate him."

"I have."

Alfred guessed that one of the perks to being in an actual relationship with the blond musician was that he never had to fear for lack of transportation or amusement. He had never been fond of public transportation, and even less so now that he knew there were stark-raving-mad fans constantly underfoot. England, he found out, was nothing like America. He wasn't sure if he liked it, but he was here for Arthur.

Arthur, to Alfred's almost surprise (the past year had been so full of surprises that Alfred felt he was beginning to grow immune to them), lived in a simple apartment. It wasn't a penthouse, or wide and spacious. In fact it looked completely normal, if not meticulously furnished and kept. He threw his bag onto the couch and sighed, purposefully draping himself over Arthur in the most obnoxious way he could and groaning. "I'm so fucking tired."

"Mm, did you have a pleasant flight?" the musician asked pleasantly, wrapping his arms around Alfred's middle and burying his nose into his shoulder.

Alfred squirmed a bit, unused to the intimacy but unwilling to say anything against it. "Uh, yeah it wasn't bad. Fucking long as hell though."

"Unsurprising," Arthur mumbled in amusement. He looked up from the American's shoulder, his hands tracing along the blond's back, feeling the familiar swells of muscles and jut of bone. "I missed you," he breathed.

"I… uh, really?" He coughed. "Well of course you did." Alfred pulled away from Arthur, placing his hands on either side of the Briton's face. "Fuck, I'm bad at this. I missed you too and shit so can we just fuck and get over this weird… whatever the hell it is?"

Arthur laughed loudly, his hands wrapping around the back of the American's neck, sandy blond hair tickling at the insides of his wrists. "If it'll make you feel better, I'm not against a good shag."

Alfred sighed in relief before Arthur smashed their lips together in a hungry kiss. His hands crawled beneath Arthur's shirt, touching the musician softly, almost hesitantly – as if he wasn't sure how he was allowed to touch or feel. Arthur bit the American's lip harshly. "Don't fret now, love," he teased with a sharp smirk. "Nothing's changed, just cleared the smoke. Be yourself."

"Shut up, you bastard. Besides, no one likes who I am, so what's it even matter?"

Arthur touched Alfred's cheek. "I do. What else matters?"

Their mouths slipped back together. Alfred asserted himself, pressing his tongue into Arthur's mouth as they stumbled about the room, Arthur leading Alfred towards the bedroom and the bed. They fell onto the blankets with surprised grunts and Alfred loomed over Arthur's prone body, letting his breath ghost over the Briton's face. His blue eyes, too blue to be true, filled with bitter intelligence and hope and caring, stared down at Arthur.

"You're positively breathtaking," Arthur mumbled, his fingers dancing up Alfred's arms. Alfred scoffed, but didn't argue. Instead he began undressing them both, leaving open-mouthed kisses across Arthur's skin as it became exposed.

Alfred lapped at one of Arthur's nipples. "How do you wanna do this?" he asked as he tweaked the other nipple with a smile. "'Coz I'm game either way."

Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred's chest and rolled them over, hovering over the American and grinding their naked groins together. "Allow me to treat you," the musician purred into Alfred's ear, his tongue flicking across his earlobe. "I want to make _love _to you-hmph!"

"Da-don't talk like that!" Alfred blustered, his hand held firmly against Arthur's mouth. "Just shut your stupid ass mouth and fuck me." His face was pinched with embarrassment as he stared at Arthur, his hand wavering before falling from the musician's mouth with a slump. "Stop sayin' nice things…" he grumbled.

"Alright, we'll have it your way for now." Arthur huffed, his fingers trailing across Alfred's skin, tickling at the trail of coarse blond hair above Alfred's growing erection. "But you'll have to learn to grow accustomed to it – someday."

Alfred didn't respond, only spread his legs further for Arthur as the Englishman's fingers wrapped around his cock. He didn't want to think about the sentimental bullshit, not now, not ever. Is all he wanted was a good fuck and he wanted Arthur to be the one he fucked. He didn't want to share Arthur; he didn't want others to even _think_ about Arthur. But he didn't want to _say _it. To come up with some pretty word to describe the animal feelings he had. That was Arthur's job.

Arthur's fingers were slicked with cold lube as he pushed them inside Alfred's entrance, prodding at the familiar bundle of nerves that made Alfred swear and writhe. "Just do it," Alfred breathed as he back arched off the mattress of the bed, his fingers burying into the warm blankets around him. Without argument, Arthur complied, pushing the head of his cock into Alfred slowly, letting his hands roam over Alfred's chest as the American breathed in heavily, his ribs shuttering and hitching as he fought back gasps and moans.

"Shit, you're so…" Arthur choked on his own words, thrusting forward and allowing his hands to drift upwards to tangle into Alfred's hair. "So tight… so hot." His head bent forward and Alfred's fingers ghosted along his spine, causing him to shiver and jerk.

It was gentle – at least in comparison to their usual trysts, and Alfred tried to use softer touches, to stop holding his breathe so he wouldn't gasp or moan. He was trying, and he hoped Arthur realized that.

Arthur bit at the edge of the American's collarbone, nipping harshly and sucking at the bruising skin. "Mine," Arthur growled out as he sat back to observe his mark, thrusting himself deeper inside of Alfred. The American only reached up, his fingers tangling into the musician's hair and pulling him into a biting kiss – tongues and teeth.

And when Alfred came, Arthur's spindly fingers wrapped around his cock, he hoped Arthur knew that he belonged to him as well.

He was just too scared to say it.

* * *

><p>It wasn't long before they found that the press and Alfred never saw eye to eye. Arthur was torn between being mortified and amused.<p>

Alfred sat in a stiff chair with starched padding, his fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest as a small brunette woman stared him down from a few feet away. He definitely didn't like the set up.

"Thanks for agreeing to this interview today, Mr. Jones," the woman started blithely, pulling out a little recorder and set it in her lap.

Alfred made a stupid noise. "Arthur made me," was his bored reply. And the fact that he was even here to begin with confused him. _He _wasn't the famous one, or talented, or sexy as fuck, he was just _fucking _the guy that actually _was_. "So what'd you wanna know, huh? I'm really good at making up bullshit, so let's get this shit over with."

"I… excuse me?"

He rolled his blue eyes and did the one thing he promised Arthur he wouldn't do: blew a bubble. Alfred gnashed the pink gum between his teeth as he sat back in his chair, letting one of his legs drape over the armrest. "What, did you invite me to an interview without any questions? Jesus fuck and I thought Antonio was stupid." His eyes narrowed at the woman. "Well fine, here, I'll give you three facts about me and Arthur, 'kay?"

The brunette looked confused, her hands tittering with her pen and paper as she tried to comprehend just where the sudden hostility had come from. "I… yes, but pardon my asking –"

"Three facts!" Alfred interrupted, jabbing a finger into the air. "I'm from the U.S.; Arthur is from England, and we like to fuck. A lot. All the time." With a frustrated movement, Alfred stood from his chair, brushing invisible dust from his shirt and leaving the brunette dumbfounded in her seat.

Arthur met him outside the cramped building, writing something in a notepad with the back of his car seat tilted in relaxation. "That didn't take long," the Englishman said as Alfred clambered into the passenger seat. He studied Alfred's upset face for a moment. "I'm going to have several phone calls tomorrow, aren't I?"

"Yeah, probably."

"I see…" Arthur leaned over, catching Alfred's lips in a kiss, smiling lightly when the American nibbled on his lower lip. "I look forward to their complaints. Should be an interesting way to start the day, I'd think."

Alfred snorted. "Whatever floats your boat."

* * *

><p>Over the months, Alfred had earned himself a reputation in the U.K. as one of the most impossible people to get along with – especially in interviews. He was even surprised to find his name in a poll of "Britain most disagreeable celebrities", in the Sun Magazine. Arthur had laughed about it for days, while Alfred wondered when, exactly, he had become celebrity enough to be put on such a list.<p>

Alfred found that, while on the tour bus with The Empire band, being with Arthur constantly was rather inescapable, but actually _living _with the musician was even more so. They slept together, ate together, did nothing together – everything together. It was domestic and strange and whenever Arthur was out at band practice or at a small concert that Alfred didn't feel obligated to attend, the American spent his time wandering the streets and underground of London. He wished he had a V.I.S.A and a job – something to keep his mind occupied as the weeks ran on. And as much as he knew that Arthur wasn't hurting for money, he also didn't like spending _Arthur's _money. It left a bad taste in his mouth, made him feel useless, like… like a _house wife _of all things.

"I'm not," he grumbled to himself, his voice gruff and angry as he walked down the streets. Arthur was at the studio recording some new song that he refused to tell Alfred about. Not like the American cared. It was probably about some girl in a bad relationship anyway.

He found himself at a little teahouse café and decided that he might as well stop before he got lost. Alfred sat at a wire table outside, ordering anything that was a coffee byproduct, his hands clenching at a wad of pounds in his pocket. _Arthur's money_. He occupied himself with glaring heatedly at his shoes until someone sat at his table across from him. "Hello."

Alfred glared up at the black haired stranger, unpleased at the man's antics. "Who the fuck're you?" he spat. Couldn't the guy tell he was busy being pissed off? He really wished he had some gum now.

The man smiled serenely at him, seemingly unaffected by the poison spat at him. "I apologize. I was hoping to introduce myself. My name is Kiku Honda," the man leaned forward, resting his hand on top of Alfred's clenched fist. "And I just wanted to let you know that you're sleeping with my boyfriend."

Violently Alfred snatched his hand away, his glare intensifying. "I am _not _sleeping with your shitty ass boyfriend," he hissed, standing up to leer down at the Asian man. The guy was too calm to be accusing him of such a stupid thing, and it only pissed Alfred off more.

"Yes," Kiku said sweetly, clasping his hands together over the tabletop. "You are. Arthur Kirkland. You're sleeping with Arthur Kirkland."

And in that moment Alfred could tell, could see where Arthur had gotten the lyrics for _Don't Leave Me Here_ – the calm face, the sweet lies; fuck he could tell that Arthur had written a song about this man. He looked up to see a camera held up above the walking crowd and Alfred cursed loudly. He kicked over his chair, uncaring as it clattered into the street. "Fuck you!" he yelled bitterly, "Fuck you, you fucking liar! _You _broke up with him. You don't fucking care about him. He's not your fucking _boyfriend_!"

"Oh? And you do – care about him that is?"

Alfred hated how calm the guy was, how the man's brown eyes seemed to narrow in challenge. He hated everything and everyone and he flipped the table over with a stream of curses before leaving the scene, his hands stuffed into his pockets and no answer to be given. Because to him it was obvious. He shouldn't have to say it.

* * *

><p>Two weeks later Arthur shoved a magazine in Alfred's face. "<em>You did what?<em>"

Slowly Alfred pried the booklet from Arthur's hands, reading over the article with an air of feigned nonchalance. **Estranged Alfred Jones Sneaks Behind the Empire's Arthur Kirkland's Back? [See his fit on being CAUGHT! Pg. 33!] **On the cover was a blurry snapshot of the moment Kiku Honda (and Alfred had done everything in his power to forget that man's face) had placed his hand over his own. It looked intimate and wrong. Alfred frowned. "You would seriously believe this shit?" he asked instead.

"Other than the fact that you threw a tantrum in public? No, I don't want to. Not one bit. But it's hard to ignore the fact that your boyfriend is hanging around with your _ex _– and holding hands, is that what that is?" A long finger jabbed at the photo. Arthur's green eyes were narrow, his brow furrowed in anger and disbelief. He actually looked… _hurt._

Alfred found himself laughing humorlessly, crossing his arms and attempting to bury himself into the couch cushions. "That's funny," he muttered sharply, "He told me that he was still your boyfriend. That you were cheating on him with me." His eyes found Arthur's. "_That's _why I threw that 'fit'. I don't know why that motherfucker touched me or how he found me, or even knew who I was – okay?"

Arthur's shoulders slumped downwards as Alfred's voice began to grow more and more meek as he spoke. The Englishman sat haphazardly on the couch next to Alfred, his hands moving to card through the American's sandy blond hair. "Alfred…" He sighed, and upon seeing the same petulant expression, he leaned down and tucked himself against Alfred's side. "I'm sorry."

"You wrote a song about him," the American murmured.

"Yes."

Alfred shied away further, but Arthur wrapped his arms about the blond's shoulders, effectively pulling him closer. "In the song… you talk about loving him even after he left you. I…"

Arthur silenced Alfred by pressing a finger to his lips, half surprised that the motion had actually worked. "That was a long time ago, Alfred," he insisted with a wan smile. "Now I sing that song simply because it sells. There is no sentiment – but…" He sat up to tower over Alfred, his hands slowly crawling up the American's sides. "For someone who isn't well off with words, you are certainly able to find the deeper meaning in things. I envy that."

The American scoffed, halfheartedly pushing Arthur's face away from his chest. "Whatever… I just… Ugh. At least you didn't have some stranger come up and try and hold hands with you. That guy gives me the creeps."

"I can't believe he touched you." Arthur, with a bit of effort, straddled Alfred's hips. His face scrunched up in displeasure. "No one's allowed to touch you – especially not Kiku. You're mine. Mine, mine, mine," he said, singsong, as his hands began to crawl underneath Alfred's t-shirt.

"Possessive fucker," Alfred grumbled as he arched his back, allowing Arthur to push his shirt up and below his chin.

Arthur smiled sharply. "Indeed I am," he muttered before kissing at the American's rosy nipples, his tongue flicking the perky nub. "I don't share." Purposefully he ground his hips into Alfred's watching the aroused blush that began to rise onto his face, starting from the American's ears and making its way to his cheeks. He wondered if someday Alfred would kiss him – not the lusty, heavy kisses that made his head swim and his groin ache, but just to turn around a corner one afternoon and peck him on the lips. For Alfred to tell him that he loved him, to willingly cuddle in the large bed in his room, to maybe sneak up behind him and hug him around the waist. "Maybe someday…"

Alfred shot him a disgruntled look. "I don't want you to share me, even someday, you freak." He picked at the button of Arthur's jeans. "And even if you're thinkin' of like… a threesome or shit; I don't do chicks. And the other guy has to be sexy as fuck – and young, no old bastards – I mean you're pushing it when it comes to age and – mmph!"

The musician silenced Alfred with an opened mouth kiss, his hand pushing its way into Alfred's boxers. "That's not what I meant. I was thinking aloud, you twit." Alfred gasped as Arthur began rubbing circles at the underside of his balls. After undoing the snap of the American's jeans, Arthur pulled the fabric down to Alfred's thighs. He gave Alfred's cock a long, attentive lick, his breath ghosting over the length before he hummed in thought. "I've an idea," he said eventually, sitting up and working off his own trousers.

"I'm having trouble believing that." Alfred snorted at the scalding glare Arthur shot him. He sat back and watched as Arthur fumbled around a small drawer in the end table by that couch that was mostly used for unread mail, his fingers stroking his cock slowly. Arthur pulled out a bottle of some off-brand lotion and shook it, squirting a large amount into the open palm of his hand. "What're you going to do with that?" the American questioned, pressing his thighs together. He wasn't in the mood to try and clean the lotion mess from his ass tonight. Shitty lube as it was.

"Stop fussing," Arthur said as he rubbed his hands together, smothering the lotion over and between his fingers. He grasped Alfred's and his own cock in each hand, letting the lotion slather across their erections. Arthur smiled as Alfred bucked up into his hand, the American grasping his wrist but allowing movement as the musician saw fit. "Lay back."

After a moment of confusion, Alfred did as he was told. Arthur crawled over the American's prone body, their cocks rubbing together. The lotion made it slippery and wet, the head of Arthur's cock rocking against Alfred's navel as the musician leaned upwards to capture a kiss.

Arthur waited until Alfred gave an impatient moan, pinching at the cuffs of his sleeves in a silent plea for more. His hands were sticky with lotion and he sat up, cupping his hands around their cocks and squeezing gently. It felt great – Alfred's dick against his own. He thrust into his own palms, against Alfred, friction seeking and horny. Alfred responded in kind, his large hands moving over Arthur's to add more pressure.

Their hot gasps and moans, accompanied by the slick, slimy noise of lotion, were the only noises in their ears. Alfred came loudly, simply groaning out nonsense words as his body shuddered in climax. Arthur continued to work against him, hoping to make sense of the odd noises and cut words that spilled from the American's lips but to no avail. Lethargically Alfred tugged at Arthur's cock, squeezing from base to tip and fisting back down, repeating the motions until Arthur came with a stunted cry of Alfred's name.

They both seemed to hold their breath as the meaning of the word began to become clear to them. And as Arthur collapsed onto his chest, semen dirtying their clothes, Alfred attempted to hold the Englishman against him, but when Arthur made no noise or comment, Alfred thought he was somehow doing it wrong and dropped the embrace. It didn't make sense.

* * *

><p>To Arthur intimacy had always meant something sexual. Intimacy was sex and a relationship within the sheets. But now, with Alfred, he knew that it extended far beyond that. It was what happened while watching the telly, how they chose what to eat for dinner, it was about PDA and the willingness to display it, it was about the fact that between Alfred and himself, he felt there was little intimacy beyond a good fuck.<p>

Alfred had lived with him for six months now, _six months_, and he'd never heard a single "I love you" from his American boyfriend. It's what he wanted – to hear those words.

He sought out Alfred that night after a studio session with the rest of the band. They were prepping for a tour of Eastern Europe and parts of Asia, a new single debut was in the ready and Arthur wanted to ask for Alfred to come. It was only eight months long, significantly shorter than the tour of America. Arthur found Alfred huddled on the couch, a blanket over his shoulders as he stared at his phone absently. There was a strange feeling about the room, but Arthur decided to ignore it in favor of cutting to the chase.

"Alfred, I've some news for you," he said, standing before the American with his hands on his hips. When Alfred glanced up at him, he frowned. "Our next tour is starting soon. We'll be leaving for Poland in two weeks."

"No."

Arthur startled. "Pardon? What did you just say?"

Alfred sat up, his blue eyes wavering on Arthur's face before falling back to the floor. "I can't go."

"What do you mean _you can't go_? And just what do you plan on doing here for eight months alone? Hm?" Arthur swallowed a thick lump in his throat, his hands beginning to shake in fear and emotion. This was beginning to sound exactly like his conversation with Kiku over a year ago. Alfred thrust his phone at Arthur, the screen displayed brightly, but Arthur pushed the device away without a second thought. "Alfred fucking tell me what's going on! You fucking asshole!" He took in a shuddering breath. "I've waited six fucking months for _something_ from you! You're so reluctant in everything we do other than sex! You won't hold my hand, it's a miracle if you even bother to cuddle and goddammit, you won't even tell me if you _love _me! I doubt you even do at all!"

The American blinked owlishly. There was a long, pregnant silence and then suddenly the blond was on his feet, jabbing a finger into the singer's chest. "What? _What!_ You're going to just… throw that shit in my face?" He pushed Arthur away from him, and even though he wasn't actually a violent person, he really felt the need to throw something. He chose words. "It's not my fault I don't fucking know what to do in an _actual_ relationship! I don't fucking know at all! It's fucking weird and I'm always _trying_ to do things right but I can never _tell_ and I was hoping that you would be able to tell! I'm really fucking trying!"

He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, glaring off to the side at nothing in particular. "Sorry. I'm really fucking sorry… but still… I can't go with you."

Arthur bit his lower lip, stepping up to Alfred carefully. Gingerly he touched his palm to Alfred's cheek. "No, I'm the one who is sorry – for not trying harder to understand… But Alfred, love, why can't you come on tour with me?" He prayed that the words that were uttered next wouldn't be a repeat of Kiku's conversation.

"I have to go to Canada," Alfred said at length. "Matthew's sick."

"For eight months?"

His grasp on his phone tightened. "Really sick."

Arthur sighed long and hard. Cautiously, as if Alfred would shatter in his hold, Arthur circled his arms around the American. "I cannot deny you that," he said softly into the dark cotton of Alfred's hoodie. "I'll make arrangements in the morning. But can you… just for tonight…"

Alfred said nothing, simply pulled Arthur closer, cradling the back of the musician's head with a hand. "I'll do my best."

* * *

><p>The hospital was quiet that afternoon, just as it had been for the past month. The sterile air was become all too familiar to Alfred's nose as he walked down the halls, a bag of chips and a cup of coffee in his hands. He pushed his way into room <em>21A <em>, giving the nurse inside a wink before settling into the chair next to Matthew's bed. "How's it goin'?" he asked as he set his coffee down on a small table.

He had spent the last month taking care of Matthew's small apartment on the outskirts of Vancouver, gathering the mail and keeping it clean and ready for the Canadian's return – which would hopefully be soon. "Not bad," was Matthew's soft reply. He touched the gauze around his neck. "Gunna be an ugly scar."

"I'd rather have an ugly ass scar than be dead from fucking cancer," Alfred shot, ignoring the way the nurse gave him an offended look. She bustled out of the room and he slouched. "It'll be a great way to pick up chicks - a conversation starter."

Matthew chuckled, a breathy noise with only the rise and fall of his shoulders to enunciate the gesture. "They say my hair'll fall out soon. You should get me that… what'd you call it? "Ruskie" hat you saw the other day." Alfred attempted a smile, but it felt awkward and he stopped. "Anyway… You and Arthur are still going strong, right?"

"I guess." Alfred took a long drink of his coffee. "I mean… we're still… uh… _together _or what the fuck ever…"

"But…?" his brother urged, and fuck if Alfred couldn't deny him. He kind of missed not having to see Matt – he'd forgotten over the years how manipulative the fucker could be.

Alfred shrugged. "It's… weird – you know? He texts me and I don't mind or nothing… I mean sometimes we even have good conversations and shit – fuck. What I'm trying to say is… Well… He wants me to say the magic three words and… I don't know…"

Matthew lay back against his pillows, staring absently at the T.V. across the room. "Yeah, I get it. You're scared?"

The American ducked his head. "Not sayin' I am or not… But yeah. What if I say it and it turns into a huge joke – I mean Arthur can be a huge asshat like that. He has that… thing he does with words, where he can make even the most horrible thing sound, I don't know, pretty and shit. And I… don't."

"But do you really think he would?"

Alfred opened his mouth, closed it, and sighed. "No…"

Matthew smiled. An alarm went off, chirping some unfamiliar song merrily and the Canadian picked up his phone from the small table next to his bed, switching the alarm off with ease. "Speaking of Arthur; The Empire is debuting their new single in… I think they're in Finland or Sweden? I'm not sure." He picked up his remote and changed the channel, absently rubbing uncomfortably at the bandaging around his throat. "I'm sure you'll want to see this."

"Sure." Alfred leaned onto the mattress of Matthew's bed, pillowing his head in his arms as he watched the T.V. intently. The scene was dark and it had to be around eight or nine at night wherever Arthur was. The crowed hummed and cheered, making the sound of the T.V. fizzle a little.

Arthur was standing center stage, a red tinted light pouring over him. _"Hello Stockholm," _he purred into the microphone. Alfred missed his voice, the deep undertones and way it seemed to grow gravelly and husky whenever he was turned on. Alfred shook himself. Now wasn't the time to daydream. _"This song is for someone who couldn't be here today. Enjoy!"_

The crowd screamed again, even though Alfred wasn't sure if half the audience even understood what he said. Francis began to pluck out a guitar rift, Gilbert tapping on the cymbals in counter beats. Arthur dipped the mic, cradling the device like a lover as he began to sing, soft and melancholy.

"_It's sharp, your smile  
>A cage for your venom tongue;<br>For bitter words, sweet and vile._

_You talk like you've seen it all  
>Dismissing things before your eyes<br>This road you walk is bitter, after all_

_Because you're a nobody  
>A misfit standing on the roadside.<br>But I know you're somebody  
>Just a loser lookin' for a place to hide.<em>

_Let it be with me  
>My beautiful Misfit<br>Let it be with me!"_

Alfred reached for remote and quickly turned the television off, his breaths coming in short gasps. Matthew gave him a look that was a mixture between confusion and sympathy. There was something in his chest – the lyrics, and he knew for a fact – were about him. _Him_. "Oh God, Matthew, he wrote a song about me." And almost at once, everything seemed to make sense. The hours hidden away in the room with nothing but a pen and paper, the way he refused to let Alfred see what he was working on, the anxiously excited looks the musician would give him whenever anything was mentioned about new material. The whole time – the whole fucking time – Arthur had cared. Alfred felt guilty.

For the first time in a long time, he cried. He sobbed into Matthew's shoulder, blubbering about every mistake and assumption he had ever made as the Canadian ran his fingers through Alfred's sandy blond hair.

* * *

><p>"So Mr. Jones is it true that you and Arthur Kirkland of the famous band The Empire are no longer together?"<p>

Alfred frowned at the Canadian reporter. Arthur had been the one to tell him to accept the interview in the first place. In fact, there were only two weeks left of Arthur's tour, which ended in the southern part of Japan. He couldn't wait to see him again. Canada was driving him fucking crazy – and as much as he cared about Matthew and everything, he was really, really tired of syrup. He'd rather watch Arthur eat a marmite sandwich again than suffer through another morning of pancakes and maple syrup.

"I dunno, Miss…" he struggled for a name for a moment, "Miss. Why don't you tell me?"

The woman pursed her lips, scribbling something on her paper violently. "That's a very dodgy answer, Mr. Jones."

He smiled, amused more or less. "You got me. You seem like the no-nonsense, BS breaker, Miss Miss. I bet you already got all the answers written down in your little notebook, waiting for me to say either something stupid like a dickweed, or I spill some controversial shit that I don't even know about." Alfred crossed his legs and pinched the bridge of his nose. "And we both know this isn't going anywhere, can I just leave?"

"Is it true that the song titled: _My Misfit _is about your home life back in America?" the reporter trucked on, surprising Alfred. Normally they gave up by now.

Alfred shrugged. "No. Haven't you actually listened to that song? Garbage. It's just a bunch of sentimental crap thrown together about someone that doesn't exist. You guys are reading into this shit too much. They're famous – they make shit to sell it."

"Love sells, Mr. Jones."

The American made an irritated noise. "So does sex – and I'm really good at that, and that could be a false statement for all you know." The ringtone on his phone went off, playing a jingle he'd heard over in England that he'd liked, only to find months later that it came from an insure commercial. "It's true by the way. I've got to take this call – I'm important as fuck. Thanks for talking with me and all that."

He pulled his phone from his pocket, pressing the receiver to his ear after answering. "What do you want?"

Arthur's chuckle was like a godsend to his ear and he found that he was smiling to himself. _"Why don't you come on outside? I'm sure you've frightened away yet another interviewer…"_

"Well this one was pretty feisty, to be honest, but what's outside?" he questioned, one eye narrowing in suspicion as he did what he was told anyway. He pushed open the news station door, peering around until he spotted Arthur standing on the corner, waving as if it were some kind of cliché movie from the nineties. "What are you doing here?" he asked breathless, the phone still at his ear as he stood in the doorway of that station.

Arthur laughed again. _"Gilbert came down with pneumonia, so the rest of the tour was cancelled. You look surprised."_

Slowly his feet began moving, one step and then another. "I am. But… fuck. I'm so glad." And before he knew it he was in front of the singer gathering the man up in his arms and touching wet and affectionate kisses to Arthur's face. "Holy shit, you're really here, right?"

The Englishman grinned, reaching up and cupping Alfred's face in his hands. "I'm honestly, truly here, love."

They shared a sweet kiss, and to Arthur's delight Alfred shakily took one his hand from his face, twining their fingers together haphazardly. Things would be okay.

* * *

><p>Alfred's breath was hot on Arthur's neck as they moved together on the bed; the rumpled magazine tickling at Alfred's dangling foot. His blunted nails scratched a portrait on Arthur's back as the Englishman's cock moved within him, his toes curling in pleasure.<p>

"H-hey, Ar… Ahh-Arthur?" he moaned out into Arthur's neck. Arthur grunted in response to indicate he was listening, but continued his pace, peppering Alfred's body with butterfly touches across the most familiar and sensitive stretches of skin. "That… nnngh song you wro-wrote?"

Finally Arthur paused, holding Alfred's gaze with his acidic green eyes. "Yes?"

Alfred could see the anxiety in Arthur's expression. He smiled gently, pulling Arthur's head down for a tender kiss, but not before whispering:

"I love you."

* * *

><p><em>Unimportant Notes: <em>Omg it's finally done! Oh gosh, oh goodness. How…? Awekfhawuea I want to thank blulious on tumblr for keeping me on track with this. I'm pretty sure without you it'd still be at part one and some forgotten WIP so _thank you so much_!

And I'm so sorry about forgetting to post this to fanfic for so long! Forgive me guys! (also I'm sorry for any errors that might be found in the entirety of this fic


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